Winter In My Heart
by 8BonnieBlue8
Summary: 'When she finds you after, the dust of war has long since settled, though the blood still clings to the skin of victory.' Clexa. Post Final.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: ****I'm basically a wreck after the final so i thought let's write something to make yourself feel better. and all that came out was angst, angst and more angst. not exactly what i had in mind.**

**so, sorry about that.**  
**This is from Lexa's P.O.V. because she's my baby and I really just wanted to get in there and see what she was thinking but i basically just upset myself.**  
**I plan on this being part of a series and there being more one-shots that basically follow Clarke and Lexa after Season 2 (from Clarke and Lexa's P.O.V). But no promises. I have plans but I'm also a lazy ass procrastinator and you get the picture ;)**  
**Anyway, I hope you enjoy?**

**Title of work taken from Vast's song 'Winter in My Heart'**

**Translations :**  
**Az = Ice**  
**Pas Warmplei = After Death**  
**jus drain jus daun = Blood must have blood**

_"__You know, we warned you once, if a grounder ever picked up a gun we'd wipe you out. What made you think it would be any different if you waged war?"_

The choice is not a hard one. Not in the traditional sense. Weighing the pros and cons, determining the ins and outs of all possible consequences, does not take long. Logically, it is an easy choice to make.

And yet-

You bite out an answer, something that approaches a 'yes' to Cage's demands, even as your hands clenches around the sword at your side, begging to swing. You want to cut Emerson in half, to drown the talking device in blood and march back to your army-to Clarke-and sound the war cry. You want to lay waste to the mountain that has haunted your people for too long. You want Clarke to join you in Polis, to see the height of your people's civilization and the proof that they are not the savages the mountain men and her own believe. You want to show her the art your people have made over the decades, regale her with stories of the intricate history they each display, and in turn hear of her own people's past. You want to take her to the Pas Warmplei, a festival held every spring, and watch her dance to the sound of drums and chanting. You want to lead her through the stalls that line the city's main walk, point out the best places to trade for clothes and weapons, and have her taste the sweet honey cakes that are the specialty of the horse clan.

You want to show her that there is more to the ground than war and suffering. That you can create and not just destroy. That you can do more than simply survive.  
You want, you want, you want.

But you are the commander and your people need you. And want has always been a little afforded luxury. This cannot change just because a girl from the sky has chosen now to fall into your life.

And so the decision is easy.

And yet-

_"__That wasn't our only missile. True, you and your army will be safe, close as you are, but Tondc isn't your only village. Just how much are you willing to sacrifice to win this war?"_

The decision is easy.

Carrying it out is not.

There is no question of whether or not you can do this.

You drove a sword through the heart of the only protector you've ever had and made peace with the nation that tortured and killed your first love. You do not doubt your ability to go through with the deal and leave Clarke and her people to whatever mercy the mountain men do not possess.

But it is not easy.

Every breath is a struggle as you approach, revolting at the pain in your chest. It does not ease as you stand before her and demolish the small tower of hope you have both built since forming this alliance. You apologize even as you sentence her people to death, knowing that no words could ever be enough to soften the blow, to excuse it.

As a leader you know what this failure-this loss-will mean to her. The destruction it will reap.

As someone who has only just started to trust again, you know the salt this betrayal will seed into her wounds.

_"Please don't do this."_

You know all this and still you take a breath-

your aching lungs expand, screaming at the pressure

-and turn away. Still, you walk away. Still, you leave her. Still, you do not turn back.

You have sacrificed everything for your people. Clarke can be no exception.

_"__And that's assuming you win. You've seen our weapons, you think you know what we're capable of. You have no idea. No idea what we have waiting for you behind that door. But I do. Hundreds of your people dead, if you dare send them through."_

_..._

When she finds you after, the dust of war has long since settled, though the blood still clings to the skin of victory. It has been nine moons-you have not been counting-and winter is just starting to loosen its taloned hold on the land. Snow still spots the earth and your people fight the cold beneath too many layers of skin and fur-grown clumsy and stiff at their own bulkiness-but you walked along the river two days ago and saw the ice had begun to thaw.

It is a long awaited relief.

Having just returned from a hunt, you are meandering around your tent and relaxing in the warmth of the fire, muscles loosening as it seeps through to your bones. You shuck off your coat-soaked wet from the snow and already beginning to freeze-and hang it up near the fire in your tent to dry. Your shirt and pants have not faired much better and you know you ought to change or else risk catching the _az_. The common ailment would be a laughable foe if not for the numerous deaths you have witnessed in the villages it sweeps through. The way some will simply fall asleep, never to awaken.

You hesitate a moment, fingers twitching at the hem of your top.

There is relief to be had in such a fate. Sometimes in bed at night, your spirit keens for it, or a similar form of mercy. More so these days.

You clench your jaw and yank your shirt off.

There is no honor to be had in such an end and you owe your people more than that. You also fear there is still much they need from you, that they will always need from you. It is your duty to fight death to the bitter end for them, not to welcome it into your tent. The mere thought puts shame on you and you throw the shirt aside, narrowly missing the fire.

There is a sharp exhale from behind you and you whip around, cursing yourself for falling victim to distraction. That you would not notice an intruder is yet another humiliating mark against you, not to mention an unacceptable risk. Your guards are there to keep out threats but you do not entertain for a minute that you safe.

You are not a fool.

Your hand grasps the hilt of the sword still at your hip, even as you realize who it is your facing. The breath leaves you and, for an unguarded moment, you are too shocked to do anything but stare.

She has changed since you last saw her. A tan has started to work its way into her skin, even with this winter; a side effect of finally being allowed to see sunlight no doubt. Her hair is slightly shorter, but still pale and wispy. It frames her, making her look almost ethereal. But it has been a long time since she floated among the stars; the dirt on her skin and death in her eyes marks her as of your world.

All you know of what took place in Mount Weather after you left is what you have heard in whispers. Your people talk of her now. The girl who fell from the sky and brought down the mountain. The girl who defeated the enemy that plagued them for decades with no help and no army. They speak of her in awe and respect, but also fear. How can there not be? A person stronger than their greatest foe, a foe they themselves stood no chance against? What could such a being do to them if she ever wished it? Sometimes, when memory of your betrayal is at its heaviest, you fear the same.

Feared or not, she is a legend among them, a story for the ages. But you are less interested in the legend than the woman behind them, and what came after her triumph.

This is the kind of information you garner from Echo and your scouts. Echo who, for reasons you have no interest in determining, sought out Clarke's Bellamy after the battle and has remained in contact with him ever since; and your scouts, who tail the activities of those from the Ark, including Clarke. You do this for the sake of your people, to ensure they are not in danger from the other half of an alliance you broke. And yet it is the details about Clarke that you rush to hear whenever they return, that hold your attention over what the chancellor has taken to do doing now and how many of her people have wandered too close to your villages this month.

You know that the majority of the sky people now live inside the facility that has haunted your people for decades, using the resources left behind that seem invaluable to them. After a shaky start, they have now begun to prosper, or so Echo tells you.

You know that those of the sky that first fell to earth, the ones who suffered the most at the hands of the mountain, elected to stay behind in the remains of the fallen ark when the rest of their people moved on. The prospect of living within the walls of their prison was unthinkable and you cannot blame them. The mere thought of being confined inside the mountain makes you nauseous and you, unlike them, have never stepped foot inside.

You know that Clarke left her people the moment victory was assured. That she has wandered the ground aimlessly for moons, forming temporary camps here and there, living only off what the earth can provide. Occasionally, she returns to her people, reuniting with friends and family, taking supplies if thrust upon her, but she never stays. She seems content in her solitude.

These are the things you know but they tell you less than what you see in her eyes now.

"Clarke." Your voice is toneless, with only the barest of inflections at the end, and for that you are grateful.

You are already at a disadvantage, caught unawares and confused as to the purpose of this intrusion. Even more pressing, the rise of goosebumps along your flesh alerts you to the fact that you are near bare from the waist up, the wrapping around your breast your only protection.

Your body tenses.

The Trigedakru have no concept of embarrassment or shame when it comes to the body. But you are the commander and bound by a different set of rules. Your people see you as more than human, a god trapped within a mortal cage, and this illusion cannot be broken. You must be seen coated in the blood of your enemies, but never to bleed yourself. You must be bigger than you are, encased in cloth and armor, concealing the vulnerable skin that lurks beneath, proof of a shared humanity. Only healers, in times of necessity, can be allowed to glimpse flesh, tender and exposed. Healers and those chosen especially by the heda, those deemed worthy of the honor and trusted not to exploit such a weakness.

To this end, only Costia has ever seen you in your entirety.

After her death, you resolved for such to always be the case.

Luckily, the spirits seem to have taken pity on you for once, as you did not fully disrobe before Clarke's appearance. Though the reason for your relief is slightly different from what it would be if she was any other warrior. You do not fear that a lack of clothes will make you appear less in her eyes. She is not one of your people, she does not look to you to lead her, nor has she ever viewed you as a god. Before the mountain, you do not think she even viewed you as the commander, not entirely.

You would not like to be vulnerable in her presence, though. Especially now.

And you know that you have already shown yourself too many times to Clarke than is wise.

Admitting your care, _kissing her_-

All mistakes that can never be excused.

And yet the haunting taste of her lips keeps you from regretting.

_Weakness._

"Your guard let me in," Clarke announces after a pause, seeming quite shaken herself. She hardens her features, though, quicker than you remember her being able to. The result is even more believable than it once was. "I guess I'm still fairly well recognized around here."

"My people have not forgotten _heda kom Skaikru_." You take breath. Exhale. "Nor what she has sacrificed for them."

Clarke's lips curl sardonically at that. "Right. Sacrifice."

You raise your chin. "I would apologize to you again, Clarke, if I thought it would mean anything to either of us. But I cannot take back my actions, nor do I want to."

"Oh I know." Her voice is hard, eyes cold even as she attempts at indifference. "I think I might hate you more if you did."

It shouldn't hurt. You have been hated by many in your time. Only, you had hoped that Clarke would never be among them. Even after the Mountain, you had hoped.

It seems even the commander is capable of foolish dreams.

No, not the commander. Lexa.

_The commander_ know better.

You turn away, trusting her even as you scold yourself for doing so. It is the faith of the stupid to believe that one would not stab you in the back when given the chance, especially when you did not afford them the same courtesy.

And a commander cannot be stupid.

"You look well. How have your people fared in this winter? I'm sure the adjustment has not been easy."

"We've managed."

You know. You've already been informed.

Those in the mountain have remained relatively untouched, same as those who existed there all those years before. Food and water have not been an issue for them, parts of the facility operating as a supply system-you're not sure how. It is those at Camp Jaha that were hit the hardest. It was impossible to survive there during the winter-not without the knowledge and supplies that have seen her people through the years-and so, after one to many cases of frostbite, they reluctantly joined the rest of their people.

When the first chill appeared in the air, you worried about Clarke. Winter was dangerous at the best of times but for one on their own, unprepared for what they were about to face it was near suicidal. You extended the watch time of your scouts, having them report back even more frequent. When the snow started to fall, you were battling with yourself over whether or not to seek Clarke out yourself, to demand that she seek shelter and the company of others. You would not see her die alone, from the elements, after all she has managed to accomplish.

You would not see her die at all.

Luckily, you did not have to.

Three days later, your scouts informed you she had moved into the mountain, shortly before the inhabitants of Camp Jaha.

"Of that I have no doubt." You know that in Clarke's hands, her people will always prevail. Your inquiry was merely perfunctory, an attempt to start conversation in lieu of anything better to say. There are few safe topics between you now. Most, in some way, trace back to your betrayal and the downfall of the Mountain. Both are uncomfortable topics that you are not sure you want to broach. The first for your own sake and the second for Clarke's. You are not sure if she is ready to talk about what happened there, the things she did; and if she is, you doubt she would want to do so with you. That she would trust you with her thoughts and feelings on such a matter after what you did is laughable.

Back still turned, You retrieve a clean shirt from the folded pile in the corner of the tent, pleased to find it warm from resting near the fire. Mechanically, you pull it on over your head and shoulders before glancing at the table nearby. On it is a platter of cured meats and a kettle of water you boiled before going out to ensure it would not have turned to ice by the time of your return. You reach for it and pour a cup each.

Turning, you hand one to Clarke, battling down the the thrill of relief when she accepts. A simple act should not effect you so much, _she_ should not effect you _so much_. Time has gone by, you have grown strong again in her absence. You no longer need to fight an upturn of the lips in her presence, nor silence the beating of your heart the closer she gets.

Or so you thought.

Looking into her eyes now, feeling the familiar swoop in the cavity of your chest, you know you are as helpless now as you have ever been. Time has not changed you. Distance has not hardened you.

You sip at your cup, the water tasting bitter in your mouth.

"Why have you come, Clarke?" You ask when the silence has stretched too long. You want this over with, yet fear its start. You want her gone, yet need her to never leave.

It's a dilemma.

But you are used to such conflict when it comes to Clarke.

"Bellamy wanted to visit Echo-she won't come to the mountain for obvious reasons," she answers, face seeming resolved to remain emotionless. It's somewhat infuriating. "I didn't think he should travel alone. Not in this weather."

You find yourself disappointed that it was not you, after all, she came to see, that this wasn't her reaching out to you after all this time, the beginnings of forgiveness even. You immediately scold yourself for the thought. Such hopes are dangerous and do nothing for you.

Nor do you deserve for them to be realized.

"You were right to think so," you respond. "No grounder ventures alone into the cold. And the beasts are their most desperate and hungry during this time. Even traveling with two is a risk." Your mouth thins, mind blistering with the images of the countless foul fates she has escaped by managing to reach you here. This visit might never have come to pass and the last time you saw Clarke would have been just that-the last. Your final goodbye the dagger of betrayal you slid between her ribs. "You'll stay the night," you decide. "Tomorrow, if you wish to leave, five of my men will escort you and Bellamy back to the mountain."

And just like that, the facade drops, and a scowl cuts across her face. "I'm sorry but you don't get to give me orders, _Commander_."

You breathe in.

No, you don't get to give her orders. You never have in the past, and if by chance you did she never listened. Clarke is your equal and therefore not yours to command, nor would you ever wish her to be.

But you can see her frozen stiff into the snow, her skin blue and fingers black, eyes glassy with death. You can see her carcass strewn across the ground, ice melting under patches of warm blood, her entrails carried away by the scavengers of the woods. You see yourself burying the memory of one more person lost, interring it so deep that it can only come out to haunt in nightmares, accompanied by the roll of Costia's head.

But you can prevent that. You can keep Clarke from falling into the pit of your dead. If she'll only let you.

"I do not wish to command you, Clarke, only to keep you and your Bellamy alive."

Sparks fly in her eyes, the first hint of emotion. "Because you care so much about keeping me and mine alive?"

You hesitate. "Your anger is fair, Clarke. But you must know that my decision that day had nothing to do with you and your people and everything to do with mine."

"Oh 'I must' must I?"

A sigh parts your lips. This is not going well at all. It seems you have lost your diplomatic edge, though around Clarke it was always a little frayed to begin with. You eye her for a moment, contemplating. You have thought many times about how you might explain yourself to Clarke if ever given the chance, how you might convince her of your reasoning and . . . not regret but guilt. The things you might tell her, though-of how her face has joined Costia's in your nightmares; of the burn mark that is hers on your chest; of the way her absence now haunts the city walks of Polis; of your secret role in the furs and food Echo supplies to her people sometimes; how sometimes you think you might eventually have let yourself be weak for her if things had not ended as they did; and the anchor that dragged at your steps that night you walked away . . .

These are not things you can admit to anyone. Not even Clarke. Maybe especially not her.

Even with this shame that digs itself a home in your chest, you are still the commander, and there are limits to what you can give of yourself-something you have been called upon to demonstrate time and time again. It is also the only protection you have left.

Whatever words she might have for you, if she walks out and never returns, you still have the commander to keep you strong. You will watch her go and the spirit inside you will harden your heart and the duty to your people will prevail over loss. It has always been this way.

"No," you say finally, softly. "You owe me nothing, Clarke. But I ask this of you anyway. Whatever you believe of my intentions, in this I am right, and you know it."

Clarke's gaze darts away and she bites down on her lip, no doubt fighting back another verbal attack. After a moment, she composes herself and turns back. "We were going to stay the night, anyway. Echo's arranged something."

You shift in your stance, feeling suddenly foolish,

And tired.

Of course, Echo would have thought of this. You do not know her feelings towards Clarke but her care for Bellamy has made itself well known since Mount Weather. When she talks of him, she seems almost to smile, and that is a rarity. What role he holds in her life, you do not know, nor do you care to, but you do know that she would not risk Bellamy's life, and in conjunction Clarke's life, to the cold.

You incline your head. "Of course."

Clarke holds your gaze as she takes her first sip from the cup-you suppose you should be thankful she does not suspect it poisoned. The sky people have a term . . . 'Small mercies'?

Perhaps it is a sign to take your chances. "I'm sorry, Clarke."

"Don't," she bites out, staring down into her cup. There are some among your people who profess to have special powers, to see the future, heal the sick, create fire from nothing. You have not seen the proof of it but in this moment you almost expect the water to boil and steam to rise up above the rim, physical evidence of her rage.

And it is rage. For though she tries to keep her mask, she has not worn it as long as you, and you can see.

You once stood across from the queen of the Ice Nation and formed the coalition, pledging peace when all you hungered for was ruin. You wonder if you looked at her the way Clarke looks at you now.

Something falls inside your chest.

"Clarke, I-"

"I said. Don't." The cup flies through the air, hits the wall of the tent with a subdued thud. For the strength of the throw, you are glad you were not the aim. "Do you know how many people we lost in that mountain? Do you know what they did to them? To Raven? To my _mum_?" Clarke takes a step towards you and you command yourself to hold your ground. "But I suppose I shouldn't expect you to care about that-they're not _your_ people." Another step. "So let's talk about your people. The 250 we let burn in Tondc." And another. "The 250 I let burn. And for what? To watch you and your army walk away while I stood outside that mountain and waited for my friends to die." She takes a breath, "I killed _Finn_-" and breaks off.

There is silence.

She's so close now you can make out every detail of her face: the lines that were not there before; her sunken cheeks; the faint scar on her chin; the barren quality to her eyes and the harshness in her gaze.

She has changed.

Her voice comes again, weaker, strangled. "Do you even know what I did? To save them?"

Your hand clenches around your cup. "Clarke-"

"Shut up."

She slams into you, drives you into the table.

You're almost too shocked to feel the pain as the wood stabs into your back, hard.

Her mouth is on yours before you can react, the force crushing.

You flush at the noise that escapes you, at how startled it sounds, like a rabbit that has just been snapped up in the jaws of a pauna.

You try to pull back, disengage. It's instinct. You are under attack and fight is not an option. Not with her.

But she pulses forward, though, swallowing your gasp. Her tongue-

Heat rises in your chest

-pushes past the barrier of your teeth and thrashes into contact with yours.

Her hands tug you forward, one at the back of your neck and the other claiming your backside.

You give up the hope of flight and instead surge forward to meet her attack, hands clasping her waist as you surrender to the kiss.

In all of your well-thought-out scenarios, this never entered in; you wouldn't let it. The idea that you would ever feel Clarke's lips on yours again was a fantasy and you gave up on those the day you surrendered Costia's head to the fire. That Clarke would ever allow this, after what you did-

You hoped for understanding,

Forgiveness maybe,

A willingness to uphold the alliance,

Perhaps even strained friendship,

But this-

You break apart to catch a breath before reuniting once more, your hands kneading at the flesh of her waist. Your skin delights at the touch of her, the heat, and thirsts for more,

and yet-

If you had a fantasy, it would not be this.

This is harsh and degrading, and not at all what you imagined when you gave yourself permission to hope for a second kiss, back before the Mountain. Perhaps this is punishment then, for ever daring to hope in the first place.

Another break for air.

And then she claims you again, and you struggle to meet the burgeoning brutality of the kiss, even as a part of you shies away.

You would never let anyone handle you like this (you, _the commander_), would die before suffering the humiliation of being thus used. But this is _Clarke_. This is Clarke and with Clarke you deserve nothing. You owe her everything, and she owes you _nothing_.

And you do not regret what you did, nor would you ever seek to change it if given the chance, no matter how many times offered. You did your duty. You did right by your people.

But you did wrong by Clarke; just as you once did wrong by Costia, though this time you cannot plead ignorance of your treachery beforehand.  
And so you understand what she is doing.

You are Trigedakru and blood must have blood is the promise you've lived your entire life by. If this is Clarke come to collect, to take her pound of flesh, you will do nothing to stop her.

This much you owe her.

And Trigedakru always pay their debts, one way or another.

"I hate you," comes in a hiss against your lips and you grunt as she bites at the flesh there, shoving you up onto the table. Your legs open for her as she presses forward into your heat and you can't stop your hips from bucking in response-

It's been a long time.

One of her hands leaves you for a moment but you hardly notice as your mouths continue to fight (you are losing). It reappears a moment later with a dagger that she's kept concealed until this time.

This you notice.

You stiffen, breaking the kiss. For a moment, you wonder what you will do if this is to be Clarke's retribution. Will you fight her?

Yes.

If only to save her from paying the price for taking the life of the commander. Your people will never let her live, and her death will be as long and as agonized as Costia's.

You shiver, assessing the situation. She has you at a disadvantage but, of the two of you, you are the better trained. You are sure you can disarm her before she ever lays a blow and are preparing to do just that when she acts. The knife slices your shirt, splitting it up and open, destroying it. She could have easily tugged it over your head but you sense here that the point was ruin.

You watch as she does the same to your pants, feeling like a distant spectre in the act, as she tugs the shreds down your legs. The last thing to go is the wrapping around your breasts. There's the slice against your skin, a distant sting, and the fabric falls away-

leaving you bare.

There is a break as her eyes scan your body, her lips parting even as she tries to keep her expression neutral. You wonder if she realizes that she is only the second to see this much of you-and if she would care.

You are under no illusion that this has anything to do with hearts and what feelings might be trapped within them. This is a battle-you have waged enough of them to know the difference-and, from your unequal states, she is winning. Though, to be fair, your fight is weak at best, non-existent at worst.

Her eyes continue to take you in, giving no sign that she likes what she sees. You raise your chin and meet her stare head on, straining for defiance. Even now you are still the commander. You are still the woman who united 12 clans in peace and rescued her people from the mountain with hardly a casualty. You are still her.

You have to be.

_"__Tell me, Commander. Have you ever heard the term mutually assured destruction."_

Blood trickles down your side-

_jus drain jus daun_

-and something flickers in Clarke's expression (shame?) but she shutters it away. "_I hate you_," it is little more than a whisper, an escaped breath, and you take in the determined set of her jaw-

_jus drain jus daun_

-and you have been cut by too many swords to count but you feel these words more keenly than any blade. You breathe in, force your gaze to remain steady, and shovel a hole down deep inside, a place to bury the feeling. It is not hard. You've spent just as much time mastering this skill as you have any of combat. Both are indispensable to your survival.

She reaches for you once more.

The rough material of her pants grates across the skin of your thighs and you close your eyes, command yourself to relax as your mouths meet once more.  
You have only ever been with Costia.

Costia who mapped the plains of your body with reverent hands long before it ever belonged to the commander. Costia who learned all parts of you when they were still entirely human, and did not shy away to see them change. Costia who called for the gentleness and love you were taught to strangle and treated it as the most precious gift you could have given her. Costia who accepted your heart and hid it away inside her, protecting it from the harsh reality of your reign.

The same heart you believed to have died with her,

or hoped it to have.

It makes itself known, though-

despite everything.

Contracting when your hand wrapped around the lifeless braid of your mentor, stilling as you readied your sword at Gustus, and becoming an incessant throb inside your chest when you looked back and saw the smoke rising out of the ruins of Tondc.

Around Clarke, it races.

Even now, as her fingers bruise your skin and your teeth clash against one another, your pulse sets a maddening pace. It has been running rampant ever since she entered the tent, and you've since lost all control.

The zipper of her jacket scrapes against your skin, reminding you that she is still fully dressed. You reach up to remedy this, to shed her of the jacket and hopefully some other garments too, but she swats your hands away without breaking from the kiss.

You don't protest. You understand. It would not do to have Clarke laid bare, made vulnerable in this like you. That's not the point. That's not what she's here for.

You take a breath and kiss her back.

_"__You underestimate my people. My warriors will fight to the last to destroy this mountain, and know their efforts will not be in vain."_  
_"Yes, yes, very impressive, we'll all go out in a blaze of glory. But what if you didn't have to?"_

In the next moment, her hands find your hips and pull you closer. You can't help but moan into her mouth at the added friction, stomach swooping as those hands move and squeeze. They burn a path from your backside to your thighs, venturing inward. The muscles inside you clench and you grip the table for support.

You want to hold onto her, to return her touch, but you don't dare.

You don't have that right.

Not anymore.

Maybe you never did.

She pulls away to nip at the skin of your neck, you shudder

-and then her fingers are between your thighs, drawing nearer to your entrance and-

You flinch.

You can't help it.

You flinch and it's the barest of movements but Clarke notices. She has always noticed when it comes to you. Even now, with all the destruction that lies between you, with her hurt and rage carving into your body and heart, she notices.

She stills, mouth pulling back, fingers growing stiff against the skin of your thigh. There is a moment when she meets your gaze

-you want to pull her into a kiss to distract but it's too late, you want to look away but that would be weakness-

and she must see something there, in your eyes, because the anger fades, dies out. She blinks and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, bites down. The hands on your legs shake and for once you can't read her expression.

"I-"

She stops herself. Blinks.

"Clarke," you try, your tongue clicking familiarly around the word, and you think that might be what does it, what breaks her.

Because in the next breath she's collapsing against you, chest heaving with something other than rage and passion, and you can hear her-the choked sounds that escape her lips-pained, desperate-as she hides her head in the crook of your neck. There is wetness against your skin.

Your mouth parts in shock and for a time all you can do is sit there, boneless and useless beneath her.

You are not accustomed to giving comfort, nor can you remember the last time you received any. After Costia's death, maybe? You think Anya might have tried once.

You're not sure. You can't-

Gustus' hand on your shoulder, strong, steady, there-

Was that comfort?

You know that Costia liked your arms around her when sadness hit, and that she would hold you close when a nightmare shook you from sleep. Your father wiped the tears from your cheeks once, drew you close and sang the songs of your people into your hair. Even more distant, a kiss to your forehead from a mother's lips, to chase away the nighttime demons.

_Comfort._

This is what is needed of you. This is what you must give.

You have an image in your head of how to proceed but still the going is clumsy, filled with hesitation and second thoughts. You stop three times before really starting.

Slowly, your arms come up and wrap around her trembling frame, waiting for her to pull away at the touch of you. She sniffs but doesn't protest, only burrows closer. This, you take as consent, and, even more hesitantly, you tighten your hold. You bring her in to you until the zip of her jacket is pressed uncomfortably into your chest, near cutting skin, but you do not loosen your hold.

_"__So what will it be, Commander?"_

You can give her this.

**So um yeah. Clarke and Lexa aren't very good at talking about their issues. And Clarke has a habit for backing Lexa into tables when she gets angry.**

**Was that alright? Did you like it?**  
**I was super nervous about that makeout scene because it's my first time writing one and I hope it didn't sound stupid...**

**I pulled inspiration from a response Kim Shumway had to why Lexa would have taken the deal with Cage for the conversation we see her having here with Emerson. The missile thing was my own thoughts though. I'm pretty sure I remember them mentioning they have more missiles and although these are useless against the army at such close range I could definitely see Cage using them for a threat. Lexa might be willing to sacrifice one village but two? You're losing more lives than saving there.**

**Stay tuned for more! Maybe. We'll see.**

**Clearly, Lexa and Clarke have a lot to talk about. And they actually need to talk. Unfortunately kisses can't solve everything..**.


	2. I Want to Hold You But

**So it's weird, I swear I posted chapter 2 of this, but apparently I didn't so . . . sorry for that? I'm not sure what happened. **

**Anyway, this takes place directly after the last one ended and is still from Lexa's P.O.V. And Lexa's having a bit of a hard time with feelings and Clarke and Clarke and and Clarke's feelings. she's very confused. Hopefully i don't make you guys confused too...**  
**Hope you like!**

**Title is again taken from Winter in My Heart by Vast**

"_I'm not a stranger_  
_No I am yours_  
_With crippled anger_  
_And tears that still drip sore_

_A fragile frame aged_  
_With misery_  
_And when our eyes meet_  
_I know you see..."_

_\- Cut by Plumb_

Time passes slowly with her in your arms, yet each escaping second fills you with growing dread. You are aware this cannot last, that soon her tears will end and with them her need of you. She will pull away then and you're afraid (a commander cannot be _afraid_), afraid she will never draw near again. Perhaps her anger will return and with it her need for blood or maybe-and this you fear even more-she will realize the mistake she has made and leave, never to return.

If this happens, you will not protest. You will not cage her here, or try to convince her to stay, to give you more of her life than she already has.

Nor will you run after her.

There would be no point.

Outside this tent, you cannot be Lexa. You cannot seek her, you cannot apologize, you cannot try and make this right. Outside this tent, among your people, there can only be the commander. And the commander cannot beg for the scraps of someone's attention, cannot succumb to remorse, cannot try for forgiveness. She must pull on her clothes and battle armor, hide her eyes with war paint, gather all her sins and and wear them as a badge of honor. She must be proud of the blood that cakes her like a second layer of skin.

When Clarke leaves, this ends. _Lexa_ ends.

But for now she is in your arms, her breath fluttering against your chest and the skin of her cheek hot and damp against your neck. Her hands grip you just as tightly as yours do her, maybe even tighter; and as her breathing calms, you match the thump thump of your heart to hers.

Even after you register that her crying has ceased she clings to you. You wait but she does not move.

You do not understand it. All you know is that it's a gift.

Your skin burns beneath hers but the sensation is almost euphoric. You feel alight at the touch of her, dizzy at her closeness and relieved at her steadfast grip.

Your mind wages another of its battles with your heart. You should not feel these things. You should not feel for her as you do. Having her in your arms should not be the most alive you've felt in moons. Your heart should not catch when she shudders, or race when she nuzzles deeper into you.

You have spent so long putting back into place the pieces of yourself that you once tore out to give to her; repairing the damage done to your walls. You cannot let her back in. You cannot _fall_ for her again. Especially when, this time, you know there is no chance of her wanting to catch you.

Yet though your mind persists, your heart knows its victory. It picked up arms when you found her in your tent, aimed its spear when she kissed you and landed the killing blow as she came apart in your arms. The battle has already been lost.

You realize it's been lost for some time. You're not in danger of falling again. You don't think you ever picked yourself up from the ground after the first time, just fooled yourself into thinking you had.

You cannot fight your feelings for Clarke, cannot slay them-and this terrifies you. Almost as much as the knowledge that your feelings are ultimately irrelevant. Soon she will leave. Soon you will lose her and still you willfeel . . .

_So much_.

Just as with Costia.

There was a lesson in her death that you forced yourself to learn, thought that you had-

but then Clarke showed you for a failure, and continues to do so now. She doesn't even know it.

You grimace, tighten your hold-

And wait.

Too soon she pulls back, her arms sliding from around you, and you can't help the frown as your shoulder loses the comforting heat of her head. Her hair brushes past your cheek and you shiver, closing your eyes for a moment to savor this last touch-

_just one moment . . ._

When you open them again, she has stepped back from you and, although it is only half a foot, you feel the space between you like an abyss, ever expanding.

Her cheeks are red from crying. She scrubs at her face, only worsening the shade as she tries to erase all evidence of tears. An impossible task: the air is cold against the wetness she's left behind on your collar and you know the feel will persist like a phantom long after she is gone. There will be no forgetting this, at least not for you.

She sighs and rubs a hand at tired eyes before pausing to take you in. You harden your jaw as her eyes scan you over, determined to regain some semblance of fortitude. Both of you have been undone by the events inside your tent, airs of indifference broken, defenses shaken, but it is you who stands most vulnerable to attack. You have no desire to hurt Clarke, to use her moment of weakness against her, but you doubt that she suffers the same reservations in regards to you.

You cannot fight her, cannot run, and a part of you longs for any blow she will deliver, but you must at least try for defense. You cannot allow yourself to be broken by her. Punished yes, but your people deserve more than a broken commander.

Her attention catches on the trail of blood crusting your ribs and although she does not move her expression-_flinches_. Her fingers twitch at her side and your own hand clenches on the table beside you, fighting to reach out and cup hers. You resist and, after a moment, her face clears and she moves on.

As her eyes continue to scan you over, you are reminded of one other benefit to having her in your arms. The heat. Without her, you are naked to the elements and the fire in your tent is not nearly enough to keep the chill off your skin. Your nipples are hard, your flesh pocked with goosebumps, and you fight to ward off the occasional shiver. Another battle you lose.

And despite Clarke's own state of dishevel, she does not miss a thing. She squints at you, judging. When another shudder rips through your body, she bites her lip, draws a few inches closer before retreating again.

Eventually, she sighs. "Come on."

She steps away, avoiding your questioning gaze, and rakes a hand through her tangled hair. You watch as she heads towards your bed, frowning with confusion as to her intentions. After a minute has passed and still you have not moved, she calls back to you.

"It's OK." Though she will not meet your gaze.

You wait for her to veer off course, to head for the exit, and when she doesn't you can only stare.

Sighing, she forces herself to look back at you. Her eyes are red, tired, and her mouth hangs worn at the edges. When she speaks, it is an effort. "Come here."

You frown, still uncomprehending.

Tugging at her bottom lip with her teeth, she takes a seat on the bed, glances up at you. "It's cold. You'll get sick." Noticing the confusion in your stare, she attempts a smile that dies the moment it's born. "It's OK. I won't bite." She pats the space beside her and you stare. It takes a little longer for things to slide into place.

You flinch.

She watches you carefully as you eye her in disbelief, brow furrowing as you attempt to decipher the reasoning behind her actions. You can find nothing logical to suggest why she is still here, why she not attempting to leave, and certainly not why she is sitting on your bed, asking you to join her. If this had been earlier, you might suspect that she was attempting to move your activities on the table to the bed, for the sake of comfort maybe. But she looks neither lustful nor angry. There is no passion in her gaze, only exhaustion and . . .

Something else that you cannot decipher.

It hints at sadness but the emotion does not fit, not really.

You can determine this, though: it is not release she is after; nor is it retribution.

You do not know _what_ she wants and it scares you more than when she'd driven you into the table. It is harder to defend against what you cannot understand.

It is only when her gaze turns somewhat pleading that you move.

Whatever she wants, whatever her intentions-

You do not have it in you to deny her.

"You know, I imagined how this would go a thousand times-punched you in a lot of them, too," she adds and you can't help the smile that quirks at your lips, and by the wryness of her own she shares your amusement, dark as it is. "But this," she waves her arm vaguely at the two of you, "never came up."

You're both a heap on the bed, she fully clothed and you still . . .not. Though, some of your discomfort over that fact has lessened-somewhere between holding her sobbing form against you and climbing into bed with her. You're still not entirely comfortable but gradually your muscles have begun to loosen. It helps-having the blankets to hide you.

You don't understand why she's still here. You expected her to leave at first chance when her crying ceased-are still waiting for her to remember herself and flee-but she seems content to remain, huddled against you under the covers. There is still a distance between the two of you, a wall, but she seems less reluctant to breach the gap.

It gives you hope, when you know you shouldn't have any.

Her eyes are red, her voice hoarse but that anger and desperation have disappeared. You wait for their return, holding your breath almost as you study the small details of her face: the two indentations that appear between her brows when she furrows them, calling to be smoothed away; the mole in the left corner above her lips, shadowed by fine white hairs; the matching freckle that crowns her left eyebrow; and the flecks of iron in her blue eyes that become less apparent as her pupils dilate. You doubt you will have this chance again, that she will ever be this close to you _again_, and you will not waste it.

You know how elusive memory can be. You can still feel the unusual smoothness of Costia's skin; smell the herbs that clung to her clothes from hours spent concocting healing poultices; and the taste of berries she would leave behind after a kiss; but you cannot remember the exact brown of her eyes; the placement or number of freckles on her nose; or the exact shape her mouth made when she smiled.

You do not want to forget these things about Clarke.

You know you will.

You lie next to each other and she traces the bare skin of your arm with a finger that occasionally trembles. You do not touch her-you're still not sure how much she will allow-but you don't protest the paths of her hand or when she tangles your legs together for warmth.

Even now, with her beside you, you can't understand how her resentment has broken way to care, can't fully believe or trust in it.

She seems intent on your tattoos, avoiding the burn scars on your chest and back. She traces the symbol on your collarbone with a gentle finger, and spends longer memorizing the the twist of the brand on your upper arm. If she asks, you will tell her what they mean, why you have them, and the cost of earning each. But she doesn't ask you are relieved-there are some things you are not ready to talk about.

"I share in your surprise, Clarke," you admit.

Her lips twitch in response, eyes attempting lightness, and then sighs. Face sinking into the pillow, she watches you and as the minutes pass, the corners of her mouth turn further and further down.

You wait for her to speak. You know she will.

"What I said before-about hating you-it's not true," she confesses and you can't help the way your heart clenches, the warmth that branches out through your chest. It shouldn't mean so much-her words-they shouldn't hold such weight and yet-

She shakes her head. "At least, not really. No more than I hate myself."

And you've known this from the moment you learned she had walked away from Camp Jaha, yet the words still prove to be a blow. You think they might hurt more than any level of contempt she could ever hold for you.

You know then that you are lost to her.

Her breath catches. "They're all dead, Lexa. I killed them. _All of them_. Not just the guilty but the ones who helped us. _Maya_." She chokes. "I killed _children_."

You watch her carefully for a moment and nod your head. "I know." You know and, for all the lessons you have given her, for all the times you tried to prepare her for exactly this, you still wish it was not so. You wish Clarke was spared. You wish you could transfer the blood on her hands to your own. There is already so much there, what's a little more?

What's a little more if it means Clarke will not have to look at you like this: like she has destroyed an entire world and can't understand why she was not blown away with it; like she has been sucked under by the force of the river that cuts through your land, and hasn't decided yet if she wants to struggle for the surface? She looks at you for answers, for a way to make this easier, but you have none. There is no easier.

If you knew a way to make it so, you would have used it years ago.

You can speak of choosing not to care, of easing the pain by closing your heart, but you've since found the lie in your words. There is no such choice. You and Clarke will always care. You will always feel the pain of your sacrifices. It's why you were chosen for this.

"And I can't," she bites her lips, "I don't know how-" She pushes away a strand of hair, pushes back the renewal of tears in her eyes. "How do I handle that? I don't think I can. I mean, I've tried. I've spent almost a year _trying_ but…"

You struggle to keep your expression blank, to let nothing of the turmoil that rages within you break to the surface. "It's the price, Clarke-of our people's survival. And we're the ones who have been called upon to pay it. Because we're the only ones who can. The only ones strong enough."

Her eyes drift away, mouth thinning. "Strong, right. Strong. That's us." She looks back, and you're surprised by the hardness that appears in her gaze, even though it should have been expected. "Betraying the people who trust you is _strong_. Killing _children_ is _strong_."

You swallow. "Yes. It is."

And some of that anger, that resentment has returned. "Then maybe I don't want to be strong."

And you understand the sentiment.

"Whether you want to or not, you are." You gaze off to the chest that sits at the end of your bed and think of the braids of hair entombed within. 6 in total. All that remains of your love. You have lost much, sacrificed much, but you have never let it _beat_ you. Those times when you wanted to scream, to give up, to run from the thankless life of a commander, to _die_-

But you are here.

Because you are strong.

Whether you want to be or not.

And Clarke is the same.

There is relief in this-

to know you're not alone, to see your burden reflected, to be understood

-and heartache.

You breathe in, refocusing on her once more. "The dead are gone, Clarke." You recite the old diatribe, repeated to you time and again by Anya, until it became the prayer you would rest your head on at night; the words that would soothe your aching soul to sleep. "There's no undoing what's been done, no water that can wash off this blood. We can't go back. We can never go back. Only forward."

"To what, Lexa? Forward to what?" she demands. "Do we just keep going like this? Choosing who lives and who dies, again and again? What will we be at the end of all that?" _What are we now?_

You swallow, eyes flickering, struggling to remain firm. "I don't know."

It's not something you can afford to consider.

_We are what we are_

"The things we do to survive don't define who we are," Clarke muses, voice edged with bitterness. "God, I was so wrong when I said that."

You can sense that you're losing her, that she is pulling way from you, descending into a darkness and hopelessness that you can't let yourself follow. Desperation makes you reach out, grab her hand. It is hot in yours, surprisingly soft. All these months on the ground and yet her hands keep their innocence. Your own were hardened in calluses before you knew the proper way to swing a sword. "Listen to me, Clarke. Whatever we are right now, whatever we become, we do so because we _must_," you stress, clenching her hand. She does not pull away. "It is demanded of us. The things we do are inexcusable but we do them because we are the only one's who can. Because our people need us to." You lick your lips, taking in the way her eyes watch yours so intently, a plea in them that you hope you can somehow answer. "They are our responsibility, our only priority. We cannot save everyone. We cannot shoulder the entire _world_. We can only save our own. And have that be enough."

It is a lesson you've learnt the hard way and one you no longer wish to turn from. You have accepted your role in this life and what you will be expected to do before you are released into the next one. You have accepted it. You only hope Clarke can too.

There is silence as she considers your words. Her finger traces patterns into your palm, almost soothing, and you wonder if she is aware. If she knows what she does to you. "Is it, though? Is it enough? Has it been enough for _you_?"

Your immediate answer is 'yes'. It is the one you are expected to say, what is demanded of you. It is what Clarke needs to hear and what you need to say.

But it is a lie. And you do not want to lie to Clarke.

"Some days," you murmur. "Some days it is enough." Some days it is a struggle to even breathe. "You survive." You squeeze her hand, soften your gaze. Comfort. This is what she needs of you. This is what you need to give. This is what you _can_ give. "You will get through this, Clarke. I have no doubt of that."

She smiles weakly, perhaps in thanks of your feeble comfort. "Because I'm strong?" Her tone lacks venom this time around, replaced with an attempt at wry humor, and you meet it with an upturn of your lips, the closest you can give to a smile.

"Because you're strong."

She allows that to sink in, thinks on it, then lets out a breath. "I'll never stop seeing them will I?"

There is no need to ask what she refers to. You know Clarke like you know yourself. At least in this. "No. But it's important that you do. It means you have not lost yourself to your actions. It means you care."

Her mouth quirks and something dances in her eyes. "I thought caring was weakness." Her mocking is light, meant in good nature, but you keep yourself hard. This is important.

"And it is. But to have no care at all, not for your people or for the lives lost, would also be weak." You learnt this after Costia died. With vengeance in your heart and all compassion lost to grief, you wanted to wage war on the ones who had done this to you. You would have slain hundreds-of theirs, of yours, it did not matter-to drown your hands in the blood of her killer. But that was weakness. Instead, you waged peace, and saved thousands. It is a hard strength to bear. "We would not be very good leaders, Clarke, if we didn't care."

She thinks it over, nods weakly, and you feel that the storm has passed. There is still much left unsaid, still so many things that need to be talked about, but it has been a long night and the two of you are exhausted. Both physically and emotionally. There is no conversation that can be had, that either of you are ready for.

So you squeeze her hand once more and relax into your pillow. She shifts closer, tucks that hand into the space between your chests, and moves her face nearer to yours. Noses inches apart, she closes her eyes and waits to fall asleep.

You watch her well into the night, studying the lines of her face, the tangle of her hair, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her being here is still such a wonder-a gift you've not done anything to deserve-and you're still not entirely convinced that she won't disappear. You watch and wait. You watch until you can watch no more; until your eyelids surrender under the pressure and you fall asleep to a warmth and comfort you have not been allowed in . . .

You sleep and for once you do not dream.

When you wake, it's to her leaving.

She is stealthy, quiet, her body taking pains not to touch yours as she climbs over your still form. Still, the bed shifts under her weight and your heart seizes, lungs trapping air in your chest. As you listen to the soft pad of her footsteps on the floor, you force your breathing to steady and will your heart to calm. You do not open your eyes as the sound of her grows ever more distant.

You pretend at sleep and keep your eyes shut as she sneaks away, though you would have liked to see her one last time.

You do not hope for her return.

_"And I have seen all that you've seen_  
_And I have been where you've been_  
_No, our hands will never be clean_  
_At least we can hold each other...__"_

_\- When You Break by Bear's Den_

**poor lexa. poor clarke. my poor babies!**  
**Anyway, so i'm hoping you guys aren't too confused by the shift in Clarke's behaviour. Writing it i know what's going on in her head but it's hard to make that come across on the page when it's from Lexa's perspective. And lexa isn't really capable of understanding where clarke is coming from at the moment. She can understand Clarke on a leadership level - and the guilt and hardships that come with that - but on an emotional one the girl's a bit of a mystery to her. She has enough trouble understanding her own ones let alone Clarke's. Her perception of Clarke is also rather biased at the moment. She's viewing her and her actions through her own guilt and self-loathing and projecting that onto Clarke. So the portrayal of clarke in this part and last one might not be an entirely trustworthy account, or it might be. You may never know.**  
**So I'm not sure if i just made any sense at all in the last paragraph but . . .**  
**Anyway, the next part (if i finish it) will be from Clarke's P.O.V. because it's about time we see what's going on with her and what she's been up to. It'll also be set after a couple of months or so, just to keep the timeline moving forward. But again, no promises on another part because i'm a terrible lazy human being who's too easily distracted.**  
**But if you've made it this far, thankyou! And let me know what you think of it :)**


	3. My Broken Life

**A/N: **

**So . . .  
Let me first just say i'm really, really sorry that Lexa's not in this chapter. I swear, she was supposed to show up within the first thousand words or so. But somebody *cough* Clarke *cough* wouldn't do what she was told. Really, she's very stubborn. I kept saying 'you have to go see Lexa' and she just kept dragging her heels. Really, she's a bigger procrastinator than me. Have no fear, though, I am working on the next part in which they will meet up. This time I am going to put my foot down. Clarke, missy, you are going to see Lexa. It's for your own good. And hers. And mine**.

"_I want to be with you,_

_it is as simple,_

_and as complicated as that."_

— _Charles Bukowski_

The weather's warmed up so you're back on your own now, with short stays at Camp Jaha that become more and more frequent as the weeks progress. Living inside Mount Weather was nothing short of a nightmare-surrounded by the people you saved, trapped inside an architectural reminder of those you killed-but you find that it's not as hard to be around your friends as it once was. You're acclimatising,

You find yourself leaning on Bellamy more than expected-when you can, when you allow yourself to. Bellamy who has taken charge of the hundred-

you wince

-46 you abandoned, even though he too is buckling under the strain. Bellamy who would grant you forgiveness a thousand times over if it could make a difference-it can't, especially when you know he hasn't even be able to forgive himself. Bellamy who gave no protest the morning you barged into his tent after leaving Lexa's, demanding that they return to Mount Weather at once, despite the fact that he'd been secretly pining for Echo's company since winter began.

And you are so, so grateful to him. You are. But . . .

But no matter how hard he tries to shoulder all that weight for you, he can't. And you don't want him to.

You're the only one who can bear it, the only one who _should_. You can share a little here and there but ultimately the load is your own.

And that's not something that he, that _anyone_ can understand, not really.

Anyone except for Lexa.

Maybe that's why you sought her out, even after you swore to yourself you never would.

You were weak to give in.

...

You're at Camp Jaha this afternoon, having stopped by for a visit the day before and found yourself coerced into staying the night. Though _coerced_ may be to light a term-Raven had all but tied you to the spare bed in her bunk, earning more than a few sly remarks from Miller; he promptly shut up when the mechanic threatened to desist all reparations to the heater in his room.

To be honest, you were a little surprised by her enthusiasm but you suppose you have been gone for the past two weeks-a particularly bad confrontation with Jasper during your previous visit keeping you away; the last thing you want to do is make things harder for your people and your presence does just that for Jasper. You are nothing now but a reminder of the girl he loved and had to watch die.

Honestly, the same is true in reverse. You still have nightmares every time you see Jasper. Maybe you always will. You deserve to.

But you made sure to keep away from his well-known haunts this time around, and you're almost certain Bellamy, Raven and Miller somehow managed to work out a system of keeping you two apart.

This is confirmed for you when Bellamy lowers his walker talkie and jogs over, deftly cutting off your forward path into the mech station. He smiles at you charmingly and suggests that the two of you go for a hunt. You see right through it, of course, but you roll your eyes and relent, ignoring the fall of your heart as Bellamy's shoulders sag in relief.

The lengths they're going to could be deemed almost ridiculous, immature even, and it feels that way but-

It's not. There is nothing childish about what brought you here, to this.

Honestly, you're grateful for what they're doing.

But you don't think you'll be staying another night.

You're following the tracks of what looks to be a deer but might be a rabbit (Finn would have known), and honestly you're hoping that you don't end up finding out which-you haven't killed an animal since the Mountain, surviving off mostly fruit and nuts, and you feel hesitant about starting now. You've had enough of killing, your hands have seen enough blood to last you centuries worth of life, but you don't say anything to Bellamy. but you didn't want to say anything to Bellamy. He's already got enough amo when it comes to worrying about you, no way are you giving him more.

"So," he begins, breaking into your thoughts. His eyes are focusing determinedly on the deerbbit tracks, as you've both taken to calling them. "Echo says the Commander's going to be visiting Tondc in a few days."

You maintain a blank face with some effort, not looking at him-this is the first time anyone but Echo's brought up the commander in your presence, and you're not sure quite what to say, or what he expects you to say. Has something happened between your people and the grounders recently that needs to be discussed with the commander? Is he giving you a warning so you know to keep away from Tondc-you never stray close to there anyway, the air too thick with the phantom smell of ash-or else risk running into the woman who had broken the alliance you'd killed Finn to make?

Eventually you decide on a simple, short, entirely all too indifferent, "OK."

He, too, tries for nonchalance. If his performance is anything like you're own, though, then you're not fooling anyone. "Maybe you should think of paying a visit, too."

You scoff. "Yeah, I'm sure Indra would love that."

"The commander would."

You halt, breath catching, and he does the same. You turn to face him and when you see his eyes, the implications there, your hands start to tremble. You stuff them in the pockets of your jacket. "Bellamy . . ."

He sighs, glances away a moment, finding his words. The fact that he's thinking about this so hard, being so careful, puts you even more on edge. What does he know? What has he_guessed_? You've been so careful, never mentioning Lexa other than to explain what happened that night outside the Mountain-she got offered a better deal; the alliance broke; we worked out a way around it; we won. Anything else is immaterial.

Most people seem fooled, though Raven has given you a few knowing looks whenever you've brought it up. Bellamy never gave any sign of suspecting anything, though. He accepted your story the first time you told it and never mentioned it again.

You wonder if he and Raven have been gossiping in their spare time and then nearly roll your eyes-of course they have. And they have Octavia on hand for source material-no doubt she's been just bursting with highly classified information from her time as Indra's second. You're not exactly sure what kind of conclusions she might have drawn, but she did give you some raised eyebrows when Lexa declared that first night that you'd be sharing a tent-for safety reasons, of course.

"Look, Clarke, I don't pretend to know what went down between you two but I do know it was a lot more than just a broken alliance."

Your first instinct is to deny, to insist that he's wrong and that the only relationship you ever had with Lexa was the professional kind shared between leaders. But you know he won't buy it. Then you consider telling him that Lexa became something of a friend to you during the campaign, that you even came to trust her and because of that her betrayal _hurt_-which isn't even a lie. But you can't say that. It's not even the whole truth and it still feels like too much.

You realize then that you're not ready to discuss Lexa at all, in any capacity. There's no level of information that won't hurt to give away, that won't fill you with shame at how close you became to someone who could so easily throw you away. You put the lives of your people at risk and it was only through chance, determination and unforgivable sacrifice that you managed to save them. Most of them.

Your dalliance with Lexa was a mistake that should never have been made.

You think even she would agree with that.

You turn away and continue on the path you've been following. "Whatever did or didn't go down, it doesn't matter now. I'm done with the Commander." And you want so much to be speaking the truth but the twist in your stomach says otherwise.

Another reason why you can't talk about this with anyone.

Honestly, you don't even know why he brought it up, what he's hoping to achieve by raising the subject of the commander's presence in Tondc. It _sounds_ like he wants you to go and see her . . .

But that doesn't even make sense.

Why would he want that? What would even make him think that it's anywhere near a good idea? What _have_ he and Raven been talking about?

"OK." He shrugs and you resist the urge to breathe a sigh at his merciful dropping of the subject. There's a pause as he follows after you and you both continue on in silence. "You know you smile sometimes now?"

It seems you spoke too soon.

The remark is enough to make you glance over at him, squinting in confusion. "What?"

Another shrug and he's avoiding your gaze. You have a feeling it's more for your benefit than his. "Since we made that trip to Echo's village in the winter-you smile. Sometimes"

You swallow, look away.

". . . I hadn't noticed." You both start walking again. You're trying for indifference but you're not sure if it's holding up.

He shakes his head and stops, grabbing your hand. At this point, this deebbit's going to be on the other side of the continent by the time you catch up to it.

He waits for you to meet his gaze and you find his eyes unusually soft when you do. "Look, you don't have to go see her. That's completely up to you and not even any of my business but . . ." He pauses and, despite yourself, you wait for him to continue. "I just wanted you to know that if you _did_ want to, it might not be a bad thing. It might actually be good."

"She betrayed us Bellamy."

"Trust me, I haven't forgotten." For a moment, his expression changes, becomes so dark that you can no longer see the man that spent twenty minutes last night tickling Octavia to tears. No, he hasn't forgotten. He takes a breath, pushing those thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. "But we've all done things."

And you know he's thinking about that lever, about Maya who rescued him from hooks and saved so many of their lives. Maya who went against her own people to help them win this war. Maya who now rots under layers of dirt and animal bones.

And you know he has sleepless nights too.

You have _all_ done things.

You know that and still . . .

You sigh. "It's complicated."

He lets you leave it at that.

...

It's been three months since you last saw Lexa, since you snuck away in the early hours of the morning, before the majority of the camp was awake. Though snuck might not be the appropriate term. As stealthy as you were, you cannot fool yourself into believing you did not wake Lexa the moment you pulled away. You cannot imagine battle hardened commanders are heavy sleepers, that their senses are not trained for that slightest threat, even in rest.

She probably woke the moment your breathing hitched.

But she pretended. She kept her eyes shut and her breathing steady, and never once tried to stop you, to reach out. For your sake, she pretended.

And you're grateful for that.

The time apart is starting to eat away at you, though, much to your dismay.

But you're reluctant to seek her out again, _more_ than reluctant actually. You're more inclined to go visit your mother inside Mount Weather, spend an entire week captive inside, than subject yourself to power of Lexa's gaze again.

Besides, you have no idea where the two of even stand anymore, what you are to each other, what you _should_ be.

That night you spent in her tent has eased some of your resentment, but not all. It still festers inside your chest, waiting to rise up and attack once more. And then there's that tension and distance that exists between you two, a kind you're not sure will ever fade. Maybe you don't want it too. Maybe you _shouldn't_. It would only make a relationship-of any kind-between you easier and that's . . .

Not a good idea.

She's already proved that you can't count on her, can't _trust_ her. No matter what friendship you once might have had, whatever connection you might have shared, that's a tough foundation to build _anything_ on.

Logically, you should work out something with her, anything in order to repair the damage done to the alliance. Not for your own sake but your people's. The last thing any of you need right now is for another war to break out. And you don't think your people could win this one, not against the sheer size of the commander's army. And you don't want your people to suffer the same fate as the Mountain Men, trapped inside the mountain, unable to venture out into the world-this time because the grounders would pick them off one at time if they ever dare leave its safety.

In that vein, you should try and have a cordial relationship with Lexa.

But only that.

Only that.

Except . . .

'Only that' is not what you want.

You hate yourself for it but you want to have a friendship with her, you want to return to the way things were, you want to see if whatever it is that exists between you could potentially evolve into something more, something better.

You miss her company: her ability to understand you in ways no-one else can; her lack of judgment in the face of all that you've done; and how she has never once expected you to have all the answers. Even now, though you keep yourself separate from them, your people look to you to lead. All of them. Bellamy, though he tries not to and even has his own place in command, looks to you. Octavia, who you're quite convinced _hates_ you, still looks to you. Your own mother, who has only just started to wake up to the fact that you're no longer a child, looks to you. They_ all_ look to you.

But Lexa never has. She never will.

And you crave that.

(You think she might also be the only one who can match you blood for blood) [2]

But there is so much unresolved there, so much left unsaid. It exhausts you to even think about trying to untangle the knotted remains of your relationship.

You tried. You volunteered to accompany Bellamy to Echo's village, knowing Lexa would be there. You went to her tent with the sole intention of just . . . _trying-_to clear the air, to begin the unraveling of that knot, to heal.

You went there needing to impress upon her the cost of her betrayal, the consequences of what she did; but also to say that you understand-you understand more than you can bear-why she did what she did, and yes, she was right, you would have done the same; and a part of you even wants to _forgive_ her-

But she hurt you. She hurt you and you're not sure it's possible for her not to do so again, for either of you not to hurt the other and, god, you're so tired being _hurt-_

But then you actually got there. And you saw her. And all the words you'd compiled in your head-all the things you needed to get off your chest, all the questions you wanted to ask-were overpowered by one thing:

anger.

You hadn't expected to be so _angry_.

9 months it had been since Mount Weather and anger had not so much as shown its shadow. Bitterness, grief, hurt, guilt, self-loathing, resentment-all these things-but not anger.

It's appearance stunned you, rocked you, left you adrift.

And you couldn't contain it.

Honestly, you didn't even try. You didn't want to. A part of you reveled in the feeling, the thrill. It was such a departure from the constant misery, and it didn't _hurt_. It burned, it left you breathless, but it did not hurt.

You looked into her eyes and the fire rose in your chest, sparking down to your fingertips as your hands clenched into fists. Face flushed, you felt _alive_.

And then you _kissed _her. It was not a gentle kiss like your first, it was not hesitant and full of promises. It was rough and brutal and it made the fire dance. It felt good, it felt like something other than death

It was not a kiss but a punishment.

You knew of her feelings for you-even after everything you _knew_-and you knew how to use them against her. You knew what would hurt her.

And you wanted to hurt her. You hadn't realized until then just how much.

You wanted to kiss her and have her know that it meant nothing to you, just as the lives of your people meant nothing to her; you wanted to fuck her and shatter whatever dreams she still had of the two of you, just as she had shattered yours; you wanted to take from her, just as she took from you; you wanted to strip that armor away and leave her bear; you wanted her raw, and vulnerable, and broken, just you had been raw and vulnerable and broken.

But you had not wanted to-

to _force_ her.

And yet, you _had_ wanted to make her suffer. And right now, that's a side of yourself you're still struggling to reconcile with. As the days take you further and further away from that . . . _moment_, it becomes harder to understand what happened. It's like something-something _dark, _something other-swept over you, engulfed you;and you let did not fight but rather embraced the transformation it thrust upon you.

You're not sure what it was, only that you've never felt anything like it before.

Not even when you were standing in the control room, your hand gripping the lever that would end the lives of 346 people.

Perhaps especially not then.

You remember that look on her face when you whispered words of hate, how she _flinched_ when your hand invaded the space between her legs, yet refused to push you away. You remember and you feel sick-at what you'd done, at what you might have done. And you don't think she would have stopped you, you _know_ she wouldn't have stopped you. You would have pressed forward and she would have said _nothing_, all as some fucked up form of penance, and you can't-

You want to say you don't understand, that you can't fathom what was going through her mind at that moment, but you do.

_Oh God, you do._

If there was any way of paying for your crimes, any way of making amends-

But there is no way.

Not for you. And not for her.

You'll never be able to atone for the things you've done, never be able to make it right.

But you understand the need to try. You understand the need to suffer for your wrongs. You spent your first three months away from Camp Jaha doing exactly that. Laboring day and night until your body gave out. Surviving on only the barest amounts of food and water. Going days without eating just to feel that gnaw of hunger, to succumb the devastation of starvation. The nights were freezing, even before winter, and you had nothing but the clothes on your back to keep out the cold, and no strength to build a fire. Your blood turned to ice and the sensation was enough almost to make you forget.

But you never forgot.

Those first few months, you never once returned to the camp in search of supplies, to be helped. You embraced your solitude and pain, and craved the wounds it dealt you as though it were a form of healing.

And it helped. For a little while, it really did. Suffering helped. It did not redeem you but it helped. You were paying for your crimes and you could almost imagine that this in some way made things _better_.

It didn't, of course. But sometimes it was enough just to cling to the brief moment of illusion, to believe for even a second that absolution could be found.

So you understand.

But still, your stomach twists at the memory of what took place in her tent, and maybe that's another reason you've been so reluctant to see her again. You're afraid of what you might do to her, of what she might let you do, and even more afraid that this time you won't be able to stop yourself. You're terrified of how far you'll go, with nothing but your shaky grip on morality to hold you back.

Your time on the ground has done nothing but try to strip you of your humanity, time and again and you're so scared now that what you have left isn't enough-isn't enough to keep you from become a monster completely.

It's no longer a question of what you're capable of but rather what you're _not_. And it scares you that you no longer have an answer to that.

You know that you can stick a knife in a boy's neck to ease the agony of his passing; that you will stab a man to save a life, whether it be yours or someone else's; you will burn 300 people, and two you love, to save your own; and you will threaten the life of a girl in order to find those people again; you will use the death of a woman who was going to help you in order to manipulate the emotions of another; you will kill the boy you love and send your closest friend into danger; you will run away from a village with your own people inside it and watch as it turns to ash; and you will execute a man just to prove a point . . .

You will deliver a slow, agonizing death to 302 adults and 44 children, and you will not regret it.

_You will not regret it. _

And now you know this: that you will hurt a person not because you need to but because you _want_ to.

And fuck that scares you.

Before now, all your crimes have been for necessity's sake, done to ensure the survival of those you protect. There is something more justifiable in that. You will never gain absolution for the lives you've sacrificed, never be able to put aside the guilt, but while your actions were . . . _monstrous, _your intentions were not. Your only desire was to save.

But you cannot say the same when it comes to what you did to Lexa. You cannot even entertain the thought. Your actions were damaging and your intentions were hurtful. You wanted to make her _bleed_.

There _is_ no justification for that.

You went into that tent with an understanding and willingness to-not to forgive, you're not sure you'll ever be able to forgive-but to pardon. You thought to mend the tattered remains of the alliance, for the sake of your people if nothing else. And you wanted to talk, to look into the mirror that was Lexa and be reassured that you are not the only one surviving on the bare scraps of a blackened soul; to see proof that it is possible to carry on after so much sacrifice, just as Lexa has been doing ever since she became commander, long before you reached this earth.

You suppose you sought comfort.

And in the end you found it. She gave it you.

But only after you tried to destroy her.

She held you, as you cried for the first time since the Mountain, and listened to the words you could never say to any other. She awoke hope in you, that there could be a future, a life, even without the absolution you so craved. She did not offer you forgiveness as Bellamy once had, you would not have appreciated the lie. But she found other ways of staunching the flow of guilt and shame within you. And for the first time in so long, you fell asleep and did not wonder if you deserved to wake.

And yet, even as you lay there, apologizing in the only way you could bare, by tracing her skin with a gentle finger, you felt it-that lingering, gnawing resentment. And while you welcomed her presence, a part of you burned, hungered for something else. You wanted to both smooth the pain from her face and drag your nails through her vulnerable flesh. You wanted to hold her and you wanted to tear her to pieces.

So you ran.

And you do not know if you should return.

You do not know if she would even want you to.

That's a lie.

...

"So, what's going on between you and Echo really? You've never said." Though it might be more accurate to say, you never asked.

You're all seated on logs around the fire-all being you, Bellamy, Raven, Octavia, Lincoln and Monty. You can see Jasper in the distance at a different fire, sandwiched between Miller and Harper. You try not to let it hurt but every so often you'll catch Monty gazing off in Jasper's direction and your dinner will start to make a reappearance in your throat-

_you did that_.

"Yeah, Bell, what is going on between you and Echo?" Octavia needles, looking far too pleased at the turn of conversation. You worry for a moment about what you might have just unleashed.

Bellamy glances down at your question and smiles, though it comes out as more of a grimace. "It's 'complicated'." His eyes find yours and you can't help but roll your eyes at the subtle dig, though you suppose it's mostly deserved after placing him on the hot seat. Catching your response, his not-quite-smile twitches in amusement.

"Bellamy has a girlfriend," Octavia singsongs and you have never been more reminded of her age. Still, it's somewhat nice, to see her fooling around like this. It brings back memories of a time when you would have thought her more prone to chasing butterflies than wiping blood off a sword.

By that stage you'd already suffered both Wells' and your father's deaths, killed a boy and watched a little girl jump off a cliff . . .

And yet you would give anything to return to that time.

You wonder if anyone else feels the same. Octavia? No, you don't think so. Although she wears a killer's hands, she is happier now, she has her brother and Lincoln, and an autonomy that alluded her even back then. Even Bellamy is perhaps better off. His sister is safe and so are his people, and he actually has friends now rather than lackeys. And though he too has nightmares now, he is a better person than he once was.

You cannot say the same for yourself.

"Bellamy does _not_ have a girlfriend," he protests, though his efforts are wasted on the group at large.

Raven leans in now, smirk in place, eager to join the let's-tease-Bellamy game. You wince, wondering what exactly you've begun. "Come on, shooter, we've all seen it."

You think Raven would go back, if given the chance. Not out of self-loathing for the person she has become but grief. She has lost much, more than most. Even now, her hand absentmindedly massages her leg in response to a phantom pain that exists even without the healthy nerves to feel it. And then there's Finn.

You would not go back for Finn, not solely for him, at least. His death nearly destroyed you but it is not what did, and if that is all you suffered, you would not now long for the past as you do.

But Raven . . . She never mentions him anymore but you know she aches for him in a way you can't afford to, even after all this time.

Bellamy scowls at her. "I repeat, I do not have a girlfriend." His mouth quirks, mind latching on to something. "Why don't we all talk about Raven and _her_ boyfriend who is actually her boyfriend."

Raven's grin only turns more wolfish. "Wow, Bellamy, I had no idea you were so interested in my sex life. But if that's the case-"

He groans, looking every bit as disgusted as Clarke feels, whilst Octavia perks up with a disturbing amount of interest. You wonder if her, at times, shameless curiosity is a side effect of the extremely sheltered life she lived before coming to the ground. She approaches everything from the sexual relations of others to the patterns of the seasons, with the same amount of eagerness and thirst for knowledge.

Bellamy gets up when it becomes clear the conversation isn't going to take a turn for the better, at least in his regards. "I give up. I'm out."

"No, no wait, we're sorry," Raven says, reaching out a hand to hold him back, though her apology is somewhat ruined by her unfaltering grin. "Let's talk serious. Whenever we bring this up you change the topic. Why's it complicated?"

He frowns down at her, not entirely appeased. "It just is."

"Why? You're hot, she's hot, you could be hot together."

"Hell yeah," is Octavia's well thought out contribution.

He rolls his eyes at her but takes a seat back down. His sister is leaning forwards in her seat, chin resting on hand as she smiles and waits. Lincoln however is shaking his head, amused but exasperated by their antics.

You catch Monty's gaze over Raven's head and the two of you share a small smile. It's the first smile you've seen from Monty in over five weeks.

And you think you have found someone else who yearns to escape to the past.

Bellamy sighs, glancing around at you all, evaluating whether or not sharing such sensitive information is really to his benefit. His hesitance is not uncalled for, you think, taking in the matching smirks on Octavia and Raven's faces.

You feel guilty for unleashing this on him. It wasn't your intention. Honestly, you assumed that Bellamy and Echo's story was old news by now and your cluelessness came only from self absorption, just as with Raven. You knew there was _something_ going on between her and Wick because you caught them making out once during your stay in the Mountain, but you had no idea he'd been elevated to boyfriend status until just now. And you understand what a big deal it is-you thought Raven even less likely than you to let someone in like that, to risk that level of hurt again. Yet when she dropped the word in conversation, you seemed the only one surprised to hear it.

Clearly the same could not be said for the situation with Bellamy and Echo-and you wish you kept your mouth shut.

He only winks at you, though, when you send him an apologetic look. You suppose that means you're forgiven.

Another sigh and he gives in, hunching forward in his seat with a shrug. "She's a grounder and I'm a sky person. Historically, that hasn't been an easy bridge to cross." Octavia and Lincoln share a look and you shift a little in your seat, uncomfortable."And she's got her duty to her village, anything else comes second to that."

It's a predicament you can relate to, though on a far greater scale, and you feel for him.

It was a surprise to learn that the grounder Bellamy befriended inside Mount Weather was a Wood Clan chief, the only other that existed besides Indra. Her village was located farther away, closer to Ice Nation territory, and the distance made her meetings with Bellamy sparse. Their friendship was a boon to the sky people, though. Whilst their relationship with Tondc were now nonexistent-mostly a case of 'we'll stay out of your way if you stay out of ours'-they found help in Echo and her village. She sent warriors to teach them how to fight, hunt, make clothes for themselves. She kept them up to date on what was happening within the coalition and any new threats, and warned them about how harsh winter could be.

You've only met her twice and she's done nothing as of yet to rub you wrong way. Beyond that, you can't say whether or not she and Bellamy would be any good together. It's something you should probably stay away from, at any rate, seeing as you're not exactly the best judge when it comes to relationships.

"Yeah, but, you like her," Octavia says, "And she obviously likes you-why else would she be sending us all these gifts."

Bellamy shakes his head though, smiling at her mistake. "That's gratitude for how we helped her people in the Mountain. It's nothing to do with me."

She opens her mouth to protest but Lincoln shakes his head at her. "No, he's right."

Bellamy looks a little too smug at this, while Raven rolls her eyes and Octavia pouts.

"Why would she even care?"

"She's paying her debt. We helped free her and her people from Mount Weather, and she's honoring that the only way she can now," Lincoln explains quietly. "Our people don't like to be indebted to anyone, it shames us."

Your ears prick up at this, despite yourself. You can't help but be interested in the grounders' ways. Not just because they're culture is so different from yours but because their culture is Lexa's culture, their ways are her ways. And you shouldn't want to know more about her, the things that shape her, that her tick-at least not for any other reason than tactical advantage-but . . .

You do.

To your never ending frustration, you do.

Octavia, however, does not share your curiosity. "Yeah, well, apparently a little shame's OK to if it means they can run away with their tail between their legs." She's been toying with a long stick for most of the night-and by 'toying' you mean poking Bellamy in the side with it whenever he's turned away. Now, she's scowling down at the ground, digging the stick in and out as draws angry lines back and forth.

Octavia knows how to hold grudges, and she's been nursing a rather sizable one for the grounders ever since Mount Weather. Honestly, you think a part of it might be down to hurt, maybe a large part. She threw herself heart and soul into their ways, embraced them in a way she never had the sky people, and they abandoned her. Indra, her mentor, a person you suspect she looked up to more than anyone else in her whole life, cast her away aside like she was nothing.

You can relate.

And yet you say, "They were only following their commander's orders. And whatever our role in freeing their people from Mount Weather, we still destroyed two of their villages with rockets, killed 300 of their warriors and slaughtered 18 of their people. And they let us live." You gaze down at the remains of your dinner, and there is a nausea now in place of appetite. "Maybe we're the ones who had a debt to pay."

The campfire falls into silence but you won't look up to meet anyone's gaze.

The truth is, you've had a lot of time to think in your self-enforced solitude-a _lot_-and your thoughts always seem to have a way of circling back to death. There is so much of it. Because of you. Because of your people. So much.

You came down to the ground like you had a right to it and-while there were mistakes made on both sides-there is no denying the fact that the grounders have suffered more hurt than they've caused. How many of yours have they killed, really? How many families have they destroyed?

You sigh and hand your plate to Bellamy. He has a hunger that far surpasses your own and you know he'll finish it off with no questions asked. He accepts it with an understanding smile.

No, you can't blame the grounders.

You don't even know if you can blame Lexa.

But you do blame Lexa.

Or try to.

You're really trying too.

It's so much easier to blame her than to forgive her. So much safer.

"Well, that was a mood killer. Moving on," Raven cuts in, deciding that the tense atmosphere that has swallowed you whole is not what she had in mind for their 'team bonding', as she put it earlier when rounding up the group for dinner.

She seems rather fixed on uniting you all again, and you can't figure out why. She's always been a private person, not particularly wanting of anyone's company besides Finn's. But in this she is determined. She is determined to mend the rifts between her people. You even caught her playing mediator to a conversation between Jasper and Bellamy the other day-no punches were thrown so you it success.

"If Echo feels so bad about what happened at the Mountain why does she always give you the stink eye when she comes by?" Raven asks Lincoln. "I mean, you're the only one who actually tried to stay behind to help. And when that didn't work you came back for us. Plus you both have the hots for Blakes. Seems like you should be best of buds."

Bellamy rolls his eyes-you assume at the 'hots for Blakes' part-but he keeps silent by biting into your leftover rabbit leg, apparently deeming it not worth the effort.

If Raven hoped to return to the upbeat mood of earlier by steering things back round to Echo, though, than she should have picked a different question.

Lincoln was silent for a moment. "I disobeyed a direct order. Betrayed my people, and in doing so proved myself disloyal. Whether or not Echo wanted to help you that night at Mount Weather, the commander ordered against it. And that is all that matters." He glances up from the fire. "There is nothing the Trikru value more than loyalty-we have only survived this long because we can trust in one another, because we are duty bound to do best by our people, because our loyalty comes first before everything. Without it one has no worth." He shrugs his shoulders and turns his gaze back upon the flames. There is a tenseness to him now that you haven't seen in months, a darkness to his eyes.

Choosing Octavia and the sky people lost Lincoln his clan, the friends and family of his birth, but you realize now it might also have cost him much more than that.

Bellamy, for his part, doesn't look surprised by anything said and you wonder whether this is a conversation he's already had with Echo. Maybe 'complicated' entails a lot more than he first let on. How would the Trikru view a relationship between one of their own and the sky people now? Things are still shaky between the two groups, with trust at an all time low. Would her people reject Echo if she and Bellamy ever started anything? They probably wouldn't get the chance to-she's chief and duty comes first. You doubt she would ever do anything that her people were likely to oppose, especially if it wasn't in their best interest.

Again, you feel guilty for starting the conversation in the first place, for putting Bellamy on the spot about something so obviously. You bite your lip and make a promise to apologize to him later.

Octavia squeezes Lincoln's hand and there is a hard set to her jaw. "It's a shame the commander doesn't share such a trait."

"She's loyal to her people," you murmur without thought. The glare you earn from her is enough to make you regret it, and that's before you start asking yourself why you're even trying to defend Lexa in the first place.

You suppose the idea of anyone attacking her for her choiceswhile you sit here unopposed makes you uncomfortable; which you guess makes you a hypocrite considering your own conflicted feelings and the way you treated her just a few months ago. But you're already a murderer and a deserter, why not add hypocrite to the list?

The thing is, you're no better than Lexa, and you feel this now more than ever, surrounded by your people, sharing in their lives. You don't deserve their kinship, their support, their laughter. Jasper has the right of it, the way he looks at you now, the way he speaks to you, _that's_ what you deserve, and more. If anyone should suffer blame for their actions it's you-you're the one with the blood of 42 children on your hands.

You wonder if Lexa understands that too, if she has also come to bear the weight of murdered children in her time.

You're not sure if knowing that she does would make you feel better or worse.

It's a terrible thing to share.

You sigh, recognizing that Octavia hasn't stopped glaring at you. "She betrayed us. But she did right by her people." You poke a stick at the fire, avoiding everyone's gaze. "I would have done the same."

And it's a hard thing to admit to them but it's about time that they stop looking at you like their savior. You're not. You're just the one who was willing to get their hands dirty.

"Yeah, we know _you_ would have," Octavia bites out and when you look up her cheeks are flushed, her gaze burning into you. And you know she's remembering Tondc, the people you left to die, how you left _her_ to die.

It turns out you were wrong before-you do know what it's like to betray someone you love.

"OK," Raven interrupts with a clap, grin a bit too wide, "changing topics, my investigations into the hot water system have proved conclusive. It's broken. Again."

That grabs everyone's attention and there's a unanimous groan around the camp fire. Even Monty is showing clear signs of displeasure.

"Miller's fault. Again." And she seems a little too happy to be dobbing him in.

"I will kill him," Octavia vows, though Lincoln steadies her with a calming squeeze.

It takes time but the atmosphere eventually regains some of it's earlier cheer and frames taught with tension begin to sag once more. At some point, Raven mentions that she and Wick are working on some experimental earplugs because she's had enough sleepless nights in the bunk next to Octavia and Lincoln's, and Bellamy chokes, going an odd shade of purple you've never seen before. Octavia, for her part, is shameless, offering to give Raven some tips in the bedroom department, whilst Lincoln shakes his head and Monty raises an eyebrow in the background.

There are even a few times when you catch yourself smiling and it's not so painful.

And it occurs to you suddenly that you wouldn't have been able to do this three months ago. Smile and joke. Just _be,_ with your friends. It's not perfect, it's not even entirely comfortable, but it's _something_. And you can say it's because of the amount of time that's passed, of the steps you've taken towards reimmersing with them, and maybe it is, but this newfound hint of lightness and the way you can sometimes go full nights without a nightmare . . .

That's down to something else.

Maybe Bellamy was right.

And you almost . . . want to _thank_ her for that. And that's possibly the most bizarre thought you've had in regards to Lexa in all this time-to the point where you almost question Monty whether he slipped a little moonshine into your drink this evening-but it's there. You can feel it, suffocated beneath the layers of emotion now tied to Lexa-anger, hurt, sadness, regret, fear, guilt, shame . . . longing.

She brings out the gamut in you, though you think this might be the first that proves positive. It's a development, at any rate. One you're not so sure how you feel about yet.

You don't think you have it in you to thank her, not yet, probably not ever. The wounds she inflicted upon you are too large, too fresh, that thanking her seems no less than ridiculous at this point.

And yet . . .

You remember her arms around you, hesitant at first but growing tighter, the strength of that hold, and the relief in finding a comfort you abstained from so long; the heat of her breath against your face; the words that both hurt and soothed the tattered remains of your soul; the solace that came with understanding; and you remember the heat of her beside you, as you drifted off into sleep, and how you have missed it every night since.

You sigh and discard your stick, wrapping your arms around yourself and huddling down for warmth.

You watch the flames until they die down, until the chatter and laughs around you begin to tire, and you wonder how long Lexa will be staying in Tondc.

**A/N:** **So i hope this wasn't too much of a huge disappointment for you.  
I just found that there was so much I needed Clarke to work through before I sent her off to Lexa. At the moment, she's just very all over the place-with her emotions, with her thoughts-and I hope that came across on the page. The scene where she's eating dinner with the group at Camp Jaha was also important to me. I'm hoping it conveyed how Clarke is trying to get back to life, she's trying to to get involved with her family and friends again, and although she has moments where things are kind of alright, she's still very much not. She's a part of their group but she's also on the outside. She can't fully immerse herself in that life again. When I was writing it, it reminded me a bit of when I was first going through recovery for my eating disorder/depression and how i was trying to involve myself in things, hang out with friends, but i just wasn't completely there. It was too much effort and it felt too foreign, and it just wasn't where my head was at. But it was also nice at times, just to be with people and watch them, and occasionally participate. And I think that's kind of where Clarke's at in this. What she's going through, it is a kind of recovery, and she's having to learn how to live again, even with all that weighs her down. And it's hard and she's not always successful but she's trying.  
Anyway, I hope there was a sense of that in this chapter.  
Also, how was my version of Clarke? Was I in character? I haven't written her before.  
Sending you all love, and hopefully (pray to god) I will get around to updating :)**


	4. But I Try

**A/N: Hey guys, sorry for the wait :(**

**But look I have finished a chapter and it has Lexa and Clarke in it. Talking. For real, there is actual talking between them in this one. Conversations being had. Issues possibly being solved. Maybe.**

**Anyway, hope you like :)**

"…_I've fallen from grace_

_Took a blow to my face_

_I've loved and I've lost_

_I've loved and I've lost_

_Explosions...on the day you wake up_

_Needing somebody and you've learned_

_It's okay to be afraid_

_But it will never be the same_

_It will never be the same…"_

_Explosions by Ellie Goulding_

It's somewhat shocking to see how far Tondc has come. You've made it a point to stay away since the missile-not that you or any of the sky people would be welcome by Indra anyway; Lexa might have given orders for you to be left alone unless proving a threat, but the relations between Grounders and Arkers are strained at best.

Bellamy told you Indra and Octavia accidentally crossed paths in the woods once and the meeting was less than encouraging. No words were said, and Octavia might as well have been air for the way the chief looked through her former second, before walking away, again.

Octavia was in a foul mood for days afterwards, she was told, snapping at people for the smallest of offences. Bellamy suspected that Indra's silence hurt her more than recriminations ever could, and you have to agree. Anger, hate, disappointment: they could all be construed as coming from a place of care, a sign that Octavia once mattered enough to cause such emotions; but indifference?

Well, that erased any and all history between them, at least on Indra's part.

Octavia, however, has been left with the tattered remains of her own, unable to shake them off quite so easily. For all her efforts to become the perfect grounder, and the progress, mastery of her emotions was not something she picked up. She looked up to Indra, even cared for her. You suspected the woman even started to fill some form of parental role that most of the hundred found themselves lacking, the one that Bellamy had always done his best to serve. The grounder wasn't a mother exactly, but she seemed to be a guardian of sorts, a mentor, even a role model-and there were very few of those around worth mentioning these days.

It must have hurt, to lose that.

And you feel for her, you do. But your heart aches less than it once would have; your thoughts consider her only briefly. You just can't find it in you to _care_ like before. And there is a quiet voice inside that snaps at her to 'get over it', grows louder every day.

It scares you.

There are times you wither under Jasper's glare and other's you want to snarl.

_You've all lost things. _

And in recent months you've found yourself falling backwards and forwards over a line between caring too much and not caring at all.

(You can't deny that there is a certain relief in apathy)

Lexa would be proud.

'_We would not be very good leaders, Clarke, if we didn't care.'_

Or maybe not.

Echo's village, Kerson, is respectful and even helpful in their interactions but even they lack warmth. They are grateful to the skaikru for their help in freeing their people; are in awe of their victory even; but they are also suspicious, possibly fearful.

They might not be wrong to be so.

From what you've seen during your visits to Camp Jaha and Mount Weather, there is a lingering resentment towards the Grounders, accompanied by fear and distrust. In some this is stronger than others, your mother being one such case. This last part is what makes you most uneasy. Many are angry, but Abby is chancellor and therefore has the power to _make_ something of her anger, if she chooses. Your mother wasn't fond of the grounders to begin with, and now there's betrayal to add to the mix. You worry that she might make relations worse, even ignite another war (they're oh so easy to start).

But so far things are holding steady and Echo's aid since the Mountain has helped to ease some of your people's more vicious emotions.

Still, it's a tenuous line to walk, and another thing you will have to discuss with Lexa,

eventually.

At any rate, you haven't borne witness to the rebuilding of Tondc and the sight of the new huts and stables stagger you for a moment. You stand there, unable to entirely process the progress before your eyes. It is nothing if not impressive.

There are children running, playing, weaving through the passages between houses and tents; you swallow at the sight of them. These are the ones that survived. The ones you condemned to die but escaped. They are the exception, for there are so many that you did. You don't know the exact number, you did not get the chance to sift through the bodies after the missile, to stare into each face as you had the Mountain Men's. You wonder how many of the dead that night were children, how many were friends to those you see today?

Lexa would know. Maybe. You're not sure you have it in you to ask.

Looking away from the village, you squeeze your eyes shut, and try to dispel the image of tiny broken bodies, buried beneath mountains of rubble.

That's not why you came.

Shaking your head, you force yourself forward, doing your best to block out the sounds of squeals and childish laughter. As you draw closer, you gain the attention of more and more of the villagers-though you don't doubt that you were spotted by guards, hidden from view, the moment you came within a hundred yards-and more than a few stop what they're doing to study you. Their gazes are curious but full of suspicion, though you catch an underlying of respect in almost all.

It's when you reach the first tent-and, really, you're surprised you've made it this far unopposed, that weapons have not already been drawn-that a warrior steps out and blocks your path.

"Hod op. Oso nou teik yo in hir."

You raise your chin defiantly but say nothing. Your knowledge of Trigedasleng is still rather pitiful, mostly because language learning has not been high up on your list of things to do. It would have been smart, considering that you would all be coexisting with these people for the rest of your lives, barring any wars. You could have asked Lincoln or Octavia. But you didn't.

You couldn't bring yourself to.

Lexa offered to give you lessons once, for after the war was over. You were even looking forward to it-spending time with her, being instructed on something other than leadership, and its sacrifices.

"Take me to Indra," you say, working to keep your voice strong, firm. You know he can understand you. He's a warrior, and they teach their warriors English. The fact that he chose to speak to you in Trigedasleng, despite no doubt knowing who you are, was no more than intimidation technique, and you refuse to let it pay off.

He grunts, eyes you up and down, before turning and stalking off. Hesitating briefly, you follow.

The sounds of the children stalk you, growing closer and louder the further you entrench on the village.

"Maunripa! Keryon kom Wamplei! Keryon kom Wamplei!"

One runs up behind you and tugs at your hand, babbling unintelligibly in Trigedasleng, and you step back, startled. The little girl grins, continuing on rapidly despite your silence. The warrior you're following sniffs and continues on without you, and you look helplessly back and forth between the two.

You're considering calling for help-ridiculous, Clarke of the Sky People, Defeater of the Mountain, rendered helpless by a harmless child?-when a man rushes out from behind a hut, grabs the girl by the arm and tugs her away. She's still smiling back at you as they depart, the man who you assume to be her father casting you a glare full of warning.

It's . . .

Honestly you have no idea what to make of it.

And you don't have the time either, because when you glance over in the direction of your entourage, he's already ten metres ahead of you and not looking any more ready to stop and wait. You spare the child and her father one more confused look before racing after him.

The warrior gives no acknowledgment when you catch up, only leads you on in silence to one particular hut. As you approach, you are met by a familiar sturdy form coming out of the entrance-Indra.

She does not look happy to see you.

"I'm here to see the commander," you announce, working to keep your voice steady, firm. You're confused, overwhelmed and more than a little nervous about what's to come, but you'll be damned if you let _Indra_ know it.

She stares at you for a moment, mouth sinking further and further into displeasure, but surprisingly offers no protest. After a few words in Trigedasleng to the warrior who brought you, she marches off, jerking her head at you to follow.

Admittedly, your first few steps are more of a stumble.

Tents of various sizes are intermingled throughout the huts and Indra leads you to the largest one, two huts over. Two guards stand watch outside and, though they eye you distrustfully, they offer no resistance when Indra raises the flap of the tent and stalks inside, nor when you follow closely behind.

The tent's smaller in size and less lavish than the one Lexa was occupying during your trip to Echo's Village, closer in resemblance to the tent you shared in the last days before Mount Weather. Recollections of both make you uneasy and, biting your lip, you stop your hasty scan of the interior and force yourself to focus on what you came for.

The commander is seated on her trademark thrown, or at least a replica-all this time, and you still don't know if it's made of wood or bone-stiff backed and unapproachable as ever. Her face is free of paint but she's otherwise dressed in full commander regalia-cloak, red sash, sword masquerading as a staff-and it is a startling contrast to the barely clothed state you found her in last time. It brings back memories of gentle kisses, and a face washed with blood as it turns away from you.

You swallow and her gaze finds you.

In that first second, her mask breaks and you catch disbelief and maybe even fear but it's up again so quickly you can't be sure. Lexa purses her lips and snaps her head in Indra's direction. "Leave us."

Her general looks reluctant to do this-most likely under the impression that you've shown up with a dagger down your sleeve and the aims to use it (that was _one_ time)-but she cannot disobey her commander. Disgruntled, she leaves, a little more stomp to her feet than necessary. You suspect she won't go far, that she'll keep an ear to the tent, ready to act at the slightest sound of disturbance, regardless of the two capable guards posted outside.

Her suspicion is wasted, you have no intention to harm her leader-you ignore the countless nightmares you've suffered, visions where you've plunged a knife into Lexa's chest and sated yourself on the feel of her blood gushing out, the sight of her eyes clouding over; you're not ready to admit that those dreams could belong to you.

"Clarke." Her greeting is guarded, her face even more so, and you struggle to make your features just as impassive. You inwardly curse the familiar jolt in your chest at the sound of your name falling from her lips.

"Lexa." You considered calling her commander just as you had the last time, to enforce a distance between you and maybe even hurt her, but that's not why you came here.

You need to at least _try_.

She blinks at the use of her name but otherwise gives nothing away.

"Why have you come here, Clarke?"

The answer to that is simple-

_you_

-but you cannot bring yourself to give it. Because it's not simple, not really. And it is full of things you cannot confess, not yet.

A minute passes, filled with careful stares and ordered breathing, before Lexa rises. She departs her throne and makes her way down the steps, lowering herself to your level. The significance of this seemingly meaningless act is not lost on you-she is relinquishing what little power she still holds in your presence, placing it aside for your sake, and, in doing so, giving rise to her own vulnerability. You are at once grateful and furious for this.

This evidence that she cares? It warms you and infuriates you. What right does she have to care for you anymore? And you hate that you can't deny that she does, that you even find comfort in the fact. A part of you wishes that you couldn't see through her so well, that you don't know her and understand her as you do, enough to see the hidden intentions behind every action.

You want her to be a stranger, the unapproachable woman you first met back when your hands were so much cleaner and your heart less ravaged. You want her to be the mystery, the one she was before you took the time to figure her out.

You want to not care in return.

But that's impossible.

You came here because you _do_.

Unable to meet her gaze any longer, you turn away and meander towards the table on the near side, more for a distraction than anything else. There are maps sprawled across its surface and a plate of food, untouched. You steal a grape without asking-because fuck they're good and you haven't had any since the last time you were in Tondc, and OK maybe it's also to try and get a rise out of Lexa but whatever. You pop it in your mouth, taking a peek at the other woman.

To your disappointment, she seems more amused than irritated, if the upturn to her mouth breaking through her mask is anything to go by.

It's not entirely unpleasant to see.

You turn back and pluck another one from the plate.

"I assume you did not come all this way just to eat my grapes, Clarke of the Sky People."

The voice comes from beside you, alarmingly close, and you feel a certain amount of pride when you manage not to flinch. She's right beside you, gazing down at the table, her shoulder only a few inches from yours. You clench your fingers around the edge of the wooden surface.

In some of the movies that survived earth, there were cats with bells on their neck, placed there so the birds would hear them coming and survive another day.

Maybe someone should consider giving Lexa a bell.

Now that she's here, this close, you can't help but think about the last time the two of you were in front of a table. Your stomach twists at the memory, the grapes fighting to make a reappearance. You can't get away from it, the knowledge that, if didn't notice that flinch, you would have-

And she would have allowed it-her kisses and pliant body beneath yours assured that much. But not because she wanted it, not because she was ready; but because she was drowning in blood just like you, struggling to wade through the guilt and despair that engulfed her. She too reached for the surface in an attempt to find some form of absolution. She too would swallow the water into her lungs for the possibility of atonement.

She would let herself drown if that was the punishment offered.

And you understand her all too much.

She will never be a stranger.

You swallow, backing away from the table and turning to face her. She is studying you intently and you try to keep your expression blank, try to keep the shame from breaking through, but you don't know if you succeed. You have always read each other too well.

She is not entirely at ease either, though. Despite her ability to try for conversation in opposition to your silence, her body is taut, stiff. The first time you killed an animal, it was a rabbit and you were hunting with Finn. Some of the hundred had started setting up traps-albeit, not very good ones. It was their turn to go out and check whether their efforts had proved at all fruitful.

After three disappointing discoveries, the two of you found the rabbit tangled up in the fourth trap. Its paw snared, bleeding, it struggled wildly for escape. When you approached with your knife drawn, you saw the white of its eyes, glazed in terror, as it clawed to get away.

You slit its throat, and watched the pulse of its blood as it drained out.

Your second kill on earth. The first had been a boy that bared himself to your blade.

What you saw in that rabbit's eyes, though, it's not so different from what you recognize in Lexa now, and your fist clenches at your side. You realize what she probably knew from the moment you stepped in here, that she did not need to relinquish power because you already had it all. You have an arsenal of words and actions at your disposal with which to hurt her, and she knows it.

But she does not struggle for escape like the rabbit, and in that she is more like the boy.

For a moment, the urge to vomit becomes almost too much.

You never wanted her to fear you.

You bite your lip, trying to reign in the downward spiral of your thoughts. No.

_That's not why you came here._

That's not why you came here.

"Are you busy?" you ask, ensuring that none of the inner conflict makes its way out to your face.

She regards you for a moment, considering, no doubt trying to figure out what your intentions are. Maybe she too thinks you have come here for blood. The idea makes you colder than you thought it would.

"No."

Though you suspect it's a bold faced lie. You have a feeling the commander is _always_ busy, that she is never at rest from demands of her people, but you do not call her out.

You pause, rethinking for a moment whether or not you really want to do this, whether you're _ready_ for this. But you've done enough waiting, enough hesitating. The time has come to act.

"I need to show you something."

Lexa studies you, still searching. You're not sure what she finds but, after a moment, she gives a short nod of consent.

You exhale, deflating under the unexpected hail of relief.

The minute you reveal that your plans will take you outside the safety of Tondc, Lexa insists on a guard. It's a matter she remains uncompromising on despite your many protests. They disappear into the cover of the trees once you set out, soundless, invisible, but you resent their presence nonetheless. You don't want anyone else to be privy to this, to your interactions with Lexa, but even moreso to what you're about to show her. It's almost enough to make you turn back, cancel the whole thing, but you grit your teeth and power onwards.

You've come this far.

"Honestly, Lexa, if I could survive out here on my own for months, I'm sure that two of us could make it one day," you gripe, nudging your heels into your horse's side to speed it up a little. Horses-another thing Lexa insisted on when you said the trip would likely take you the rest of day and some of the night. You were less opposed to this stipulation, though. Especially since your legs are already aching from your walk to Tondc.

However, you seem to have been saddled with the laziest horse one could find. It's only been thirty minutes and already the mare's stopped nine times to graze, and twice more for seemingly no other reason than to rest her eyes and smell the roses (not that there are any roses here). You want to say that this development was unintentional on Lexa's part but the subtle quirk to her lips every time this happens has you suspicious.

Even when the horse doesn't stop dead, she's content to lag more than a few metres behind Lexa's without some heavy prodding.

The horse Lexa gave during the war with Mount Weather hadn't been this much trouble.

You clench your jaw, that horse was another thing sacrificed when the missile hit Tondc.

Anya's horse.

You still don't know why Lexa gave him to you.

A glance over at Lexa for her response finds her avoiding your gaze, mouth pursed as she rubs the neck of her own horse absentmindedly. You frown and attempt to puzzle her out, regretting it the moment you do.

"_No_," you say in disbelief and her gaze snaps to yours. What you see there is all the evidence you need, There is admittance and maybe even a little bit of embarrassment if the red tinge to her ears is anything to go on, but she also doesn't have the decency to look guilty.

Your hands tighten around the reins and it takes everything in you not to snap. "How long?"

"Since the Mountain was defeated."

And it feels like a betrayal. You didn't realize there was any trust left for her to betray.

"How dare you?" It's not just that she was the one person you thought knew enough to never doubt your abilities, but that she did so behind your back. She kept it from you all this time, neglecting to tell you even when you lay side by side in bed, giving her a certain trust, despite your deepest reservations.

She clenches her jaw but refuses to look away. "The ground is dangerous, Clarke. Especially for one on their own," she insists. "You needed protection."

"I did _not_ need protection," you snap. "Especially not _yours_. I can handle myself. I think I've more than proved that already." It's only your anger that keeps you from cringing at the many _ways_ in which you've proved this.

You glance away, too furious to look at her anymore. You wonder if it's too late to cancel this whole thing, to turn back and forget you ever saw Lexa, ever even met her. You could walk away and put all this to bed. All this hate, all this betrayal, all this hurt-

But you can't walk away. If you've learnt anything in the past months, it's that.

You can't walk away from her.

There is a pause as you both move on in silence and you wonder whether you can last the rest of the trip this way. You're not so sure that Lexa will reach their destination alive if not.

"27."

You frown and turn to her in confusion. "What?"

Her face is expressionless as she stares ahead. "27. The exact number of threats to your life my warriors have eliminated in the past 14 months."

The scowl on your face turns from confusion, to surprise, to embarrassment, before finally settling on annoyance-at yourself for your stupidity and at Lexa for being right. "Oh."

She sighs and turns to meet your gaze. "From birth, we learn how to survive this world and still we struggle. You've been here for little more than a year. Though your triumphs and abilities are commendable, that does not make up for the years of training and knowledge you missed."

You can't deny that she has a point and you sigh, giving into defeat as you glance down at your hands, forcing your grip to ease up on the reins. She's right. With all the struggles and things you've survived, you feel ancient, and more than capable of handling anything the ground has to offer. But you're not, not entirely. Compared to the Grounders, you're still in some ways a child, floundering around and hoping they don't accidentally burn themselves on something-you remember with some bitterness the days it took you to just to find decent shelter. And you only have the barest inkling of the dangers this world has to offer, of what you might face-and you can't say you're prepared for the next giant gorilla that comes along.

But your heels dig in every time someone starts to suggest you're not capable of something. Months spent trying to convince the adults of the Ark, especially your mum-and she's still not quite there yet-that you can take care of yourself, and that you're not a child anymore have worn your nerves thin. It's the same for the rest of the delinquents, even Bellamy who was actually an adult when he first landed here. They look down on you, even after all you've done, and all the adults have _failed_ to do, you are still seen as less in their eyes, inferior. The attitude is changing, slowly-Kane was pretty quick to hop on the bandwagon-but it's not enough.

They don't trust you to look after yourselves, but God knows you'll be the ones charged with saving the day the next time shit goes down.

That's not where Lexa's coming from, though. Her doubt in your abilities comes not from your age but rather from your lack of experience, and that you can understand. Besides, you're pretty sure that out of the two of you, it's your mother who Lexa views as the actual child-and at times you struggle to disagree.

Despite this though, the dying embers of anger and hurt flicker in your chest and you can't help but turn on her, gritting your teeth to keep back the vitriol that first comes to mind. "You should have told me."

"Perhaps." She clenches her jaw and adds nothing further, and you find her silence somewhat infuriating. You remember, though, that Lexa says more without words, so you begin to study her. She's avoiding your gaze, and you suspect it's to hide the appearance of vulnerability. Her knuckles are white and her body straighter than usual, taught with tension. After a moment, she swallows-

and you get it.

You know why she kept it a secret, why she refused to tell you even when you came face to face again after months of being a part. Your bodyguards, her tracking of your movements, they're a sign of her care for you, a care that is safest kept to herself-for her own wellbeing_ and_ the good of her people. Getting Lexa to admit that she cares about anything is a struggle at the best of times but this is different. This would be her presenting you with a weakness, the evidence of it, and doing so when you were likely in a mindset to use it against her. You can't even say her wariness was misguided because it wasn't.

In the end, you needed no such proof to know that Lexa cared for you-you'd already seen enough-and you used that care as a weapon against her the first chance you got. You kissed her, wanting it to mean nothing to you and everything to her. You nearly fucked her in the desire to prove that you could, that she would let you because you had that power over her. You wanted to leave her afterwards, leave her naked and trembling and ashamed, never to return. You wanted her to know that she had been right all along and that her love for you _was_ weakness, and hate herself for ever giving in to it.

Wait.

Love?

No. Not love. You didn't mean love.

Care.

Lexa cares for you, feels for you. But she doesn't love you.

She can't love you.

You're not ready for her to love you.

She doesn't deserve to love you.

You shake your head, unclench your hands when you realize they've tightened again.

You don't deserve to be loved _by_ her.

In the few weeks after Mount Weather, you became a gravedigger-not the kind that grabs a shovel to pitch in when yet another of their ilk dies; but the kind that existed before, on earth; the kind whose lives were devoted to the dead.

You spent hours, most of them in a state delirium from lack of food and dehydration, burying your dead (all 346 of them). You fashioned them a bed in the ground they'd yearned so much for in life. But like in the Mountain, they were still trapped beneath the dirt, hidden from sky; and there they'd be left to decay, bones breaking away to dust until they disappeared into the earth forever.

You at least tried to make them comfortable.

It didn't redeem you, didn't change the fact that, in your first two months on earth, you'd managed to exterminate an entire population. It didn't bring back the dead, or erase their suffering in the moments before death.

It did _nothing_.

But you did it anyway, you had to. Nothing was all you had to give.

You put Maya and the children to rest near a sea of flowers-embraced the pang in your stomach at the knowledge that they would never see it-and fashioned crosses above their heads-not out of any religious reverence (Wells was the one who believed in all that crap not you) but a need to mark what was lost, what was sacrificed. You wanted to do the same for the others who'd helped you, but you couldn't tell them apart from the one who'd condemned your people to death.

_You hope they understand._

_Know that they can't._

When you got to Dante's body on day 6, you hesitated. You knew his desire for the ground, his lifelong dream, how much he had appreciated the beauty of it-and that he had, in the end, rejected the one thing that could enable him to reach it. You knew that, at first, his intention had been to help your people; that all his sins had been more the salvation of his _own_; and that he'd sacrificed himself and his soul for them, just like you.

But 4 of your people will never walk the earth again, and there are thousands of grounders who suffered the same.

You buried him amongst the other nameless citizens, and left his grave unmarked.

He does not deserve the flowers and a cross above his head, he does not deserve to be remembered.

He's no better than you.

You left Cage to the beasts of the woods, though. One day, you saw he had been hollowed out, his entrails scavenged and eyes pecked away by birds. His severed hand had been carried off some time before that. It should have satisfied you, that even in death he continued to pay for his crime, that he now more than ever resembled the monsters he'd made of people,

but all you felt, all you _feel_ is empty.

You wonder if you, too, will one day be carrion for the birds.

Months have passed since then. Now, you visit the mountain every week, like clockwork. You steal flowers from the field, from the woods during your journey there, and offer them to the crosses. You make certain to avoid the days when Jasper visits-when two months passed, you met with Bellamy and told him where Jasper could now find Maya, if he wished to; there are always flowers on the grave beneath the large Ash tree, you take care not to disturb them when you add your own.

Sometimes, Bellamy comes with you. Sometimes he goes by himself; you forget, sometimes, that you weren't the only one to pull that lever. Your idea, your decision, your cross to bear-but there had been another hand on yours that day, another hand to ruin with blood.

And then there's Monty. Sweet Monty, who you doubt has ever wanted to hurt anyone in his life; Monty, who only smiled at you sadly and gave you a hug when you told him of your plan to leave; Monty, who made it possible to pull that lever.

He doesn't visit the graves. He never even leaves Camp Jaha. During winter, you never once saw him step outside the Mountain.

You're worried about him. You're worried about all of them. But you can't be that person anymore; that person who will take them by the hand and lead them through this hell. You no longer have the strength to bear that weight. You can't navigate through your forest of dead, can't be sure that you won't lead them to the slaughter, rather than to safety.

You're not the person you once were, the kind who always tried to help everybody else. You're not much of a person at all anymore.

Half the time you feel dead, hollowed out, drained of life's marrow; and the other half you only wish you were.

There was a break in this, though, just a brief moment-

_kissing Lexa, being in her arms, talking with her . . ._

-just a brief respite, so very brief.

But it was _something_. It's what you imagine living to feel like.

It was painful but it was also . . . healing. There were times you felt almost light, like the anchor in your chest was beginning to lift. And when you fell asleep, you sensed yourself there, struggling, fighting with every last reserve to break to the surface. You felt _Clarke, _or some shadow of her.

The memory of it tantalizes you now, haunts you.

You want to feel that again.

But there are things in the way, so many things, and even without them you're not sure you _deserve_ that relief, or to feel Clarke. You've killed so many, and she was one of them. Her loss should be your punishment. You have no right to gain her back.

But you want to.

You want to be Clarke again.

It's why you're here.

You pull your horse to a halt as you finish your ascent of the mountain, noticing the ash tree over yonder and the offering of fresh flowers.

There are cameras on every corner here-here being so close to one of the Mountain's entrances-but you've specifically chosen a day when Miller's father is on surveillance duty; he feels himself indebted to you, after saving his life, after saving his son's, and although this usually makes you uncomfortable you decided to cash in on it for once. He'll keep what he sees here today to himself, more importantly he'll keep it from your mom. You're less than eager to discover her reaction, or anyone else's in the mountain for that matter, after finding the commander who betrayed them on their doorstep.

You're not sure you could smooth things over before firing of weapons.

"Why did you bring me here?" Lexa asks, her eyes taking in the mounds of earth and garden of crosses. There is confusion there and maybe even a little unease.

You wet your lips.

There are so many ways to answer that but so few that you are ready to give.

You look at her, taking in the faint crease to her brow, the part of her lips that hints at a nervousness she can't express. You remember those lips pressed against yours, so soft that first time, so sweet, and again, desperate, pained. You see the nervousness and vulnerability in her eyes as she gave her trust, and that same vulnerability before she walked away from you, beaten by a hardness you never believed you could match-until you did. You see her face as you laid together in bed, bare and offering so much-but not enough to erase the past.

"Because I need you to understand." You take a breath. "I need you to understand why we can't just go back to the way things were. Why being around you, _with_ you, is so hard. Why even though I want . . . _this_, I'm not sure I can let myself have it. Not right now. Maybe not ever."

She watches you for a moment and you know she is taking you in, digging down to the root of you and unearthing what she finds there for study; even as she considers your words so carefully. You are not surprised. She has always taken pains to give everything its due thought, especially you.

Her eyes flick to the graves and back again.

"I understand," she says and you know that she does. There is guilt in her eyes and sadness, for you, for both of you, maybe even for those lives that have been sacrificed. But there is also respectfulness. And you know now that you could tell her that this is goodbye, that you never want to see her again, and she would not protest. She would walk away and never return, without hesitating. And she would _understand_.

But you also know that you don't want that.

So before you can stop yourself you reach out and take her hand. It's warm in yours, rough, and dirt chafes against your skin. It feels real. "But I miss you. And I'm too tired to keep denying myself this."

_And I have to believe that second chances exist. Even for people like us. _

Her hand is tense in yours but she does not pull away. You feel the thrum of her pulse beneath your finger, how it's started to race at the touch of you. Your own heart pounds to match.

You work a smile, weak but hopefully reassuring, and she swallows. You think you might even have left her speechless. In the past, the thought would have amused you, would even have drawn out a smirk, challenging, triumphant. Now though, there is only the beginnings of warmth inside your chest, the echoes of a tenderness you thought you'd lost.

It's not much. But it's something.

Her lips part and she hesitates. "So am I." And she exhales like to admit this is both terrible and beautiful, a relief and a mistake. Her pulse climbs even harder and her eyes dart to your hands, to hide, maybe even to reassure herself that they are still there, clasped together.

Her confession seems to have made her more rigid, sharp glass in your grip that could fracture at the slightest movement.

You could ease that fear.

You consider telling her that you understand what she did, that she'd been right when she said you would have done the same-you _did_ do the same-but a spiteful part of you holds back. You aren't ready. You don't want to relieve Lexa of that burden, not yet. You don't want to be alone in your suffering and guilt.

You can't deny that there's also a certain comfort in her fear, that you're not the only one scared of what's to come, what this means.

So you only squeeze her hand; right now, that's all you're willing to give.

And after a moment, she squeezes back.

It's a start.

_Bellamy: Don't tell me you trust him now. _

_Clarke: Trust? No. I do believe in second chances._

_I am Become Dead, The 100_

**A/N: So how was that?**

**This series isn't finished yet (I still have more I'd like to write) but I'm back to not making any promises, so. Keep your eyes out but not your hopes up?**

**Translations (at least I'm hoping, my Trigedasleng's not very good):**

**Hod op. Oso nou teik yo in hir. = Stop. We do not accept you here (fig. "you are not welcome here")**

**Maunripa = Mountainkiller**

**Keryon kom Wamplei = Soul (Spirit) of Death**


End file.
